


Walls crumbling

by keyrousse



Category: Constantine (TV), Criminal Minds: Suspect Behavior
Genre: A little bit of violence, Friendship, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, John is a hugger, Minor Character Death (Mentioned), Missing Scene, Some Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-21
Updated: 2017-11-10
Packaged: 2018-11-03 07:21:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 32,811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10962438
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keyrousse/pseuds/keyrousse
Summary: A set of missing scenes from "Constantine" and a "two characters played by the same actor are twins" crossover. It's basically two fics in one.





	1. Non est asylum

**Author's Note:**

> Two fics in one. Chapters named after episodes are one fic, and 'interludes' are the second. The first fic is a kept-in-canon chain of hurt/comforts and 'missing scenes'. The second one is a crossover. They are not written as a part of the same universe, but they don't contradict each other.  
> I am not a native English speaker. It shows. I've found a wonderful beta, Arctialucy, who is going to correct my wild writing, hopefully.

Chas waits for him at the airport.

The patient, reliable, forgiving six foot six and a half inches man, stands by the Arrival gate with his hands in his pockets. Didn't change at all.

“So you are able to get even thinner,” Chas comments at the sight of him. John smiles, drops his bag on the floor and allows Chas to pull him into a bear hug, which he gratefully returns.

“Hello, old friend,” he mutters into Chas' flannel shirt. He gets a pat on the back.

“The millhouse is waiting,” Chas informs him, letting go.

“I think we should start looking for Liv,” John replies, picking up his bag.

“I think we should start with putting some food into you,” Chas protests, leading him outside. “I've already located Liv, as long as she's at work, she should be safe.”

“Fine, we'll pick her up when she leaves her work,” John agrees, spotting Chas' old cab.

He knows his friend watches him closely, probably noting his more than usual hunched posture and new wrinkles on his face. To be honest, he left Ravenscar utterly drained. He's avoiding taking the prescription drugs he got when he left. Group therapy was boring. Electrotherapy made him almost catatonic rather than allowing him to forget; it took some time to recover. He’s thirty two and feels like fifty.

However, his stint at a mental hospital did some good. Nightmares are still there, but he no longer sees Astra's damned end every time he closes his eyes. It's easy to remember that nightmare, even a simple word could trigger a flashback. But he's able to focus on something else, like keeping Liv alive, which is a nice change considering how broken he was after Newcastle.

Chas looks properly worried about him. John remembers the phone call they made after he'd admitted himself to Ravenscar, how Chas started with a threat of bodily damage for disappearing without a word. It ended being a two-hour conversation with a lot of crying on both ends, not that they would ever admit it. After, John refused to talk to anyone from his circle, including Chas. No-one other than the big cabbie looked for him anyway. So now, six months later, it's just the two of them.

They get into the car and sit there a while, not moving. John stares ahead, Chas looks at him.

“You look like hell,” Chas says. John snorts.

“Let's get on with it, shall we?”

Chas starts the engine.

“What are you going to do when we're finished?”, he asks, pulling out on the street.

“I've learned not to think too far ahead,” John replies, looking out the window. He rolls down the window and puts a cigarette into his mouth. He lights it and tries to blow the smoke outside. Chas keeps quiet, even though John well knows he doesn't appreciate smoking in his car. John needs it. Chas is hoping that after feeding the skinny man and getting his mind off certain things, the haunted look in his brown and oh so old eyes will fade.

They pull up at a cheap restaurant. John agrees to go in, but refuses to help with the order. Chas picks their food, making sure John's dinner is not made mostly of deep-fried products, his distaste with grease well known after years of friendship.

“So, what you've been up to?”, John asks politely.

Chas knows it's to distract both of them from John's poor state. So he talks about his time back in New York, some interesting clients and generally what happened while his friend was away. He tries to avoid the topic of his family: he rekindled the relationship with his wife and doesn't want John to feel guilty about dragging him from her again. They both know it's Chas' choice, but Constantine is aware it's Chandler's feel of obligation that forces the big man to join the exorcist in his fight. The obligation John put in him, intentionally or not.

When they get their food, John picks at it a little, but forces it down at Chas' judging look. John smiles when he swallows the first bite: his friend knew what to pick. He eats the rest of his dinner without fuss, finally realizing he's bloody hungry.

John orders a beer for himself.

When they are finished, Chas notices a content look in his friend's eyes. John leans back in his seat, full and satisfied.

So he has good food and mild alcohol in his stomach and some nicotine in his lungs. His best friend is sitting opposite him, ready to have his back during the new demon hunt.

John pats his belly.

“Just like old times, eh?”, he says, smiling. It's really like the old times, John's eyes are finally alive, shining with excitement.

“Ready for battle?”, Chas replies, returning the smile.

“With you, always,” John declares. They pay and leave.

 


	2. Interlude1 - Incomplete

His father mentioned his brother only two or three times. A twin, stillborn maybe five minutes after John came into this world. Not an identical twin, but close to it: built the same, with the same face, but his brother's hair was darker.

The boy hadn't got a name. Or his father chose not to mention it.

It was some kind of relief John was blamed for his mother's death only, but he remembered his brother, too, and imagined what his life would be like if the younger twin was alive. They wouldn't be so lonely. Or maybe it was a good thing that John endured his childhood on his own. One little boy was spared the tragedy of being raised by a drunk.

It surprised him, though, that his father didn’t hold his twin's death against him. Why not torment John with one more death? John wasn't complaining, his life hard as it was.

When he met Jasper, the psychic mentioned something about John being incomplete on their second meeting. At John's question he added that this was the feeling he got when a person had no idea about some close family member. “Someone should stand by you, but doesn't,” he said. John guessed it was about his sister, Cheryl. “No, you know she's out there somewhere. Someone exists out there you have no idea about, who would be close to you if you did.”

John remembered his brother. He told Jasper about him.

“Could be him,” Jasper pondered.

“But he was stillborn,” John argued.

“No, John, I think there is a teenage boy with your face and dark hair running around, probably feeling incomplete, too,” Jasper declared. John was too shocked then and too busy later to even think of looking for his lost sibling. He also had no idea where to start. As time progressed, the thought of his brother faded to the back of his mind. He hoped they’d find each other some time later in their lives.

 


	3. The devil's vinyl

John collapses in the backseat of Zed's truck and almost immediately starts snoring. Chas and Zed glance at each other. Zed starts the engine and slowly pulls out on the street, beginning their long, slow ride home.

“I'm surprised he stayed upright for so long,” she murmurs, glancing at John in her rearview mirror.

“He may be skinny, but he's strong,” Chas replies.

“I've found him ziptied to a frame, bleeding. God knows how long he's been there. And then he kept running around to end the case, without taking time to sleep or even eat properly.”

“Hey, he's fine. He'll sleep it off, eat and bounce back to the top form in no time.”

Zed nods, disbelieving his words. They did take some time to put food and as much sweet fluids into John as they could, especially after they were finished at the radio station and John started to sway. John complained, but did what they said. Chas was worried about this, John have never really been obedient regarding his wellbeing. Maybe the fact that he was basically left for dead shook him enough to try to get back on his feet as soon as possible.

They drive in silence for about an hour before they hear John murmur in the backseat. Chas glances at him.

“I think he's running a fever,” he observes.

“When we redressed the wound before leaving Fells, it didn't look infected,” Zed says with worry in her voice.

“Extensive bleeding usually cleans the wound, so I don't think it's an infection. It's probably a reaction to blood loss or adrenaline crash, late as it is,” Chas guesses. “There should be a gas station somewhere close, we'll stop there, buy some water and give him Tylenol.”

Zed nods and looks for the station. Thankfully, she finds one after five minutes of driving. They stop by the shop.

“I'll go buy some water bottles, try to wake him,” says Chas and leaves the car.

Zed quickly joins John on the backseat. She digs up a bottle with Tylenol from her bag and tries to shake him awake. John is curled up on the seat, shivering slightly, his skin cold to the touch and pale. He's not a big man, but right now he looks even smaller than usual and vulnerable. She tucks up his sleeves, taking a look at the wound on his forearm. It looks clean, the cut didn’t open and isn't any warmer than the rest of his skin.

A loud tap on the door shakes her from her focus on John. A man looks at them.

“You need some help there, girl?” he asks with a raspy, drunken voice.

“No thanks, we'll be fine,” she replies with a polite smile.

The man opens the door by John's head. Zed tenses, wondering where the hell Chas is.

“You sure?” he asks. John chooses that moment to raise his hand slightly and murmur something in a language only he knows, still with his eyes closed. The man looks at him curiously. Suddenly he pales, takes a few wobbly steps backwards and slams the door shut. John sighs and puts his hand back down.

“You can't be left alone for two minutes...” he whispers with exasperation.

“Thanks,” Zed replies, fighting the urge to smack him. He's in enough pain as it is. “Come on, sit up. I've got some Tylenol.”

John sits up with a groan, falling on the backrest, his head lolling. Zed tries to keep him upright, but he's almost a dead weight, like a drunk.

Chas shows up a minute later, holding two water bottles.

“Hey, John, what is it?” he asks with concern. John’s eyelids are heavy when he opens his eyes, finding his friend.

“Adrenaline crash, 'm fine,” he promises, his shaking hand reaching for the water bottle. The red ring around his wrist is barely visible, but Zed still shudders at the sight of it. She can't imagine the helplessness John must have felt on that crate; tied up, bleeding out and in pain. If she came five seconds later...

Zed shakes it off, puts a Tylenol tablet in his hand; he looks at the white tablet like he's wondering what it is.

“Drugs,” Zed explains, worrying about his obvious confusion. “Then water.”

John smirks, puts the tablet into his mouth and takes a big gulp of water, managing not to spill it. He winces when he moves his injured arm.

“Want me to drive?” Chas offers.

“Sure,” Zed agrees, giving him the keys she thoughtfully took from the ignition when she left her seat. She settles in the backseat beside John, who is dangerously leaning to the other side. Carefully she grabs his injured arm and makes him lean on her.

“Come on,” she offers warmly, patting her thigh. He looks at her with confusion. Seeing a man with a mind so sharp in this state, scares Zed. “There's a long way ahead and you lost a lot of blood. Get some sleep,” she explains, her worry over him spiking.

He lays down after a moment of hesitation. He settles as comfortably as he can and closes his eyes with a sigh. The humming from the car engine and Zed’s gentle fingers massaging his head, running through his hair, lulls him to sleep. He’s safe.

 


	4. Interlude2 – The investigation

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A character from CM:SB named Cooper will show up here. For the people who didn't watch the show, he looks like Forest Whitaker.  
> Warning of a few swearwords.

Long before Newcastle and long after he met Chas, they found themselves in San Francisco following a rumour about a demon possession. Luckily alive witness of a brutal murder looked at John with curiosity when they showed up at his place but decided to tell them 'what he'd already told the FBI'. When the demon hunters concluded that a possession wasn't the case and this was indeed a mystery for the FBI, they left unaware the man notified the agents. An hour later John found himself in a precinct, cuffed in an interrogation room. Chas managed to run and John didn’t hold it against him: this was what they had always done, one of them on the loose working to get the other out. John was patient. He had nothing to do with this case other than having asked a few questions and he was sure he'd be released soon anyway.

The black, tall, casually dressed man who entered the room wasn't the detective who arrested John. He looked FBI. He also had a silver crucifix hanging on a chain from his belt. He looked into John's eyes. Constantine returned the look and didn’t say a word.

“Who are you, Mr Constantine?” the man asked and sat down opposite John.

“You got my card. Who are YOU?” John replied, polite enough to not be hostile.

The man ignored his question.

“Exorcist, demonologist... I choose to skip the part about the dark arts,” he said and smiled like he meant it as a joke.

Constantine snorted.

“Not fitting your beliefs, that's fine by me. What do you want?”

“I have a problem with you,” the man admitted, “first, you aren't a journalist, no details about the case were made public and you still show up at my witness' place and ask him questions about the murders. Did the case hold any interest to you?”

It was somewhat interesting that the agent didn’t ask him about his sources.

“Not anymore,” John replied honestly. Hiding anything was pointless. FBI meant potential big trouble and lying wouldn't help. He was sure they were doing or even already did a background check on him – he wasn't squeaky clean, but he hadn't done anything to face a longer arrest; he’d been arrested a few times before and always released within a few hours. He knew when to shut up and when to reveal everything he knew. “It turns out your killer didn’t need a demon to do what he did, morbid as it was. I would be long gone and wishing you luck if you didn't snatch me off the street for no reason at all,” John replied, shrugging. The handcuffs around his wrists clanked a little.

“So, you were looking for a demon,” the man clarified. He worked hard to not look sceptical. John knew the man thought him a con man, he was used to that, but his profession wasn't the problem here. This was about something else and John could feel it.

“I'm a demonologist, that's what I do, mate,” John replied. “It doesn't matter if you believe it or not. Who are you and what do you want from me?”

“I'm sorry. My name is Sam Cooper and I'm the leader of a Red Cell of the FBI. I want to know where do you come from?” The man tried to appear friendly, his questions were of curiosity rather than demand. He sounded like a psychologist and John had no time for psycho games.

“Am I a suspect?” he asked.

“No, you don't fit the profile,” Sam admitted.

“Oh, great. So if we are here to chat, could you please take these off me?” John asked, raising his cuffed hands.

Sam regarded him for two seconds, then nodded towards the mirror. Someone entered; John wasn't looking at the newcomer but kept his eyes at Sam, who watched him calmly.

Male hands reached for the cuffs and released John's wrists. John glanced at the hands. They were similar to his, small-scale, with slim fingers and callouses on the trigger finger.

John looked up from the hands, through hoodie-clad arms and lean torso towards the face of the man who had released him.

Serious, brown eyes in his own face, framed with unruly, brown hair, looked back.

“Oh fuck!” John exclaimed, jumped from the chair to the corner of the room, away from the two agents.

The man remained where he was, standing by the table, with his arms held by his sides, but his fingers twitched. He was nervous, looking at John. John scrutinised him: they were the same height and similar built; the man was bulkier, but his baggy clothes hid his frame. He stood a little bit straighter; his eyes sharp and confident. His age was as difficult to guess as John's: they could be the same age, but people sometimes told Constantine he looked older than he was because of the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth.

“Fuck,” John repeated, breathing hard, still staring at the newcomer.

“You see my second problem now?” asked Sam, who was by then standing by the mirror. John managed to look at him.

“Why? You don't believe in doppelgangers, mate?” he asked through clenched throat and had to force himself not to look at the man with his face.

“From your reaction, I know you don't,” the man talked for the first time, with a distinct British accent. His accent and tone were different than John's – softer - but the voice was the same.

“It's rare to see someone with the same face, sorry if I reacted too strongly for your tastes,” John barked, forcefully putting himself together. He straightened a little but remained in the corner of the room.

“Liverpool?” the Brit asked. John nodded, glancing at him again.

“Mick Rawson,” the man introduced himself, approaching him. “And believe me, mate, I reacted about as strongly as you did,” he admitted and offered his hand to shake. John accepted it after a second of hesitation.

“Wales,” John guessed back and smiled a little.

“Swansea, yeah,” Rawson confirmed.

“As for your reaction, Mick, I believe there was a lot more cursing,” Sam revealed with a smile.

“You can't count the cursing I'm doing in my head, mate,” John replied. Mick snorted.

“So you both had no idea the other existed,” Cooper concluded, serious again.

“And I have no intention of using that knowledge against anybody,” John declared, “I get into enough trouble, I don't need impersonating an FBI agent on my list.”

“Good to know. And I'm not sure I would look good as a blonde,” Mick replied, relaxing.

John looked at him. _Bollocks_. The man even smiled almost the same. Less crooked, he obviously had fewer walls built around himself - probably hiding behind silence rather than sarcasm.

This was overwhelming.

“I need to sit,” John admitted. Mick stepped back. John dragged himself towards the chair and sat down heavily.

He knew that normally it was hard to shake him at all, but this, this was different. This stunned him. This was so personal he let all his walls fall at the mere sight of the man with his face. John knew he had a brother, probably still alive, and this influenced his reaction.

Mick was British. Sure, from a different part of the UK, but still British.

John started to believe, and hope.

Cooper laid something in front of John. It was a swab kit for a DNA test. John looked at him.

“If you want to,” Cooper offered. “I admit, we are all very curious,” he explained.

“There are three other agents from our cell,” Mick revealed, pointing at the mirror. John could recognise evasion when he saw one. No way the test was to feed the other agents’ curiosity.

Rawson leaned forward, with one hand on the table and the other on the back of John's chair. His face was level with John's.

“Do you want me to?” John asked looking at the swab. He glanced at Mick. Cooper slowly left the room and closed the door behind him. John knew he joined the agents on the other side of the mirror but gave him and Mick an appearance of privacy.

Mick didn’t reply, just kept looking into John's eyes.

John at that moment realised something crucial. Cooper's Red Cell and Rawson among them were professional investigators. John wasn't half bad at solving mysteries himself, so he could come to proper conclusions. Given the fact that Rawson was here, they practically paused (or at least divided) their murder investigation and went through the trouble of arresting him and making The Leader talk to him, meant Mick Rawson thought that the crazy idea of having a brother could be true. John had no idea whether Mick's date of birth had been changed in the papers, but if it hadn't, then, well, they saw his driving license and his DOB on it. They weren't talking to him like he was a con man or a doppelganger, or even impeding the investigation. They really considered the case of a lost twin as a possibility.

John decided that what the hell. His walls were down anyway, why not reveal himself even further. Complete honesty was rare for him, but if they really were brothers, they both deserved it after almost thirty years of not knowing about each other.

Mick had the air of a private person as well. He was probably revealing a lot of himself, too.

“Have you ever felt incomplete?” John whispered, hopefully too quiet for the people on the other side of the mirror to hear him. Mick flinched, only slightly, but John could see little details like this. Constantine stared at the swab on the table. “He bloody told me my twin brother had been stillborn, that he had died with my mother. My almost identical twin brother, younger by five minutes, with hair darker than mine.”

Mick's knees buckled, he ended on the floor by John's chair, propped on his hands, breathing hard.

It was all John needed to know.

He took the test, swabbed his cheeks from the inside, put the swab back into its probe. He stood up, went around Mick to the door, opened it. Cooper waited outside, he took the swab without a word. John closed the door. Mick was still kneeling. John sat by him on the floor with his legs crossed, not touching Mick, not even looking at him.

“What if we’re mistaken?” Mick asked quietly, looking at the floor.

“Then we live on, knowing that there's a con man and an FBI agent with the same face but different hair, hoping that they would never work against each other, because they are both good at what they do,” John replied. ' _B_ _ut I don't believe we are. It feels too true_ ,' he thought and he was sure Mick felt the same.

They finally looked at each other; the same brown eyes, now full of hope, reflected in the same pale, looking older than their age faces. Even their hairdos were similar, the colour being the only difference.

“So you know you were born with a brother. I know my parents adopted me as an infant,” Mick said.

John smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know there is no such thing as “almost identical twins”. Either they're identical or not.  
> I like this chapter. If you like it too, let me know.


	5. A feast of friends

The screams quiet on the third day.

John barely leaves Gary's side, using the short moments of exhausted silence to grab something to eat or drink or to use the bathroom. Zed doesn't see him, safely hiding upstairs from the horrors of a slow, agonising death. She wants to leave, needs to leave, but she knows she can't – John is spending every moment with his dying friend, so she can stay here and be there for him when she's needed. She doubts John would accept it. Still, the thought of leaving him alone is unbearable, even more than the screams that will surely haunt her for a long time when it's all over.

John stays in the room for at least half an hour after Gary's soul finally leaves this plain. When Zed gathers the courage to come downstairs and look at him, he's still holding Gary's cold hand, sitting on the uncomfortable chair with his head bowed, breathing deeply. She sees the muscles of his jaw move under his skin like he was clenching his teeth. He doesn't seem to notice her, but then he suddenly lets go of Gary's hand and stands up, almost bumping into her.

He practically jumps back before he can walk onto her, surprised she's in his way.

She sees his eyes are red-rimmed and wet. She sees him crying for the first time since they have met. She has seen him exhausted, even scared, but not crying and it's both somewhat comforting and scary.

“Do you need help?” she asks quietly, trying not to look at the body on the bed.

“No,” he replies, trying to walk past her and being very careful not to touch her. He jumps aside when he sees her reaching for him. “No,” he barks and goes to one of the other rooms in the back of the house. He emerges with white sheets and a shovel.

“Let me help you,” she offers, but he makes sure he doesn't touch her when he walks back into the room with Gary and starts to release him from the restraints.

“I don't want your help,” he barks again and she would feel offended if she hasn't seen the emotions in his eyes.

“Why not?" she asks.

“I have to handle this alone,” he explains, throwing the restraints to the side. He carefully drags the body from the bed onto the sheet spread out on the floor. He kneels by the body and pauses. She sees him breathing deeply, his sweaty and dirty shirt clinging to his thin body.

“At least get some rest,” she suggests, at which John suddenly stands up and comes to her, his face mere inches from hers, his eyes furious.

“I have just spent three days watching my friend die in agony because of something I did and had no control over,” he barks, his accent more pronounced than usual. “It's my fault, so I would appreciate it if you just stayed away from me for the time being, eh?”

She backs away. She realises he's not talking about Gary's sacrifice, but the events in Newcastle. Gary wanted to redeem himself after what had happened there, but it ended in disaster and the hunger demon was released in Atlanta. He probably wouldn't do that if he wasn't feeling guilty.

“I'm sorry,” she offers, “for jumping on you when you brought Gary here,” she adds.

That deflates John a little.

“I deserved it,” he replies, “just... stay away for a bit, all right, luv?”

“I'll be right here,” she promises, “when you need me.”

He leaves the body on the sheet and goes outside. Zed remains in the house, settling on the couch by the fireplace. She has no idea what John is doing, although she can guess he's digging a grave. He returns after two hours, even dirtier and sweatier than before. When he passes her on his way to the room with Gary, she can see determination in his eyes. He wants it done as soon as possible, even if he's running on fumes.

He carries Gary's wrapped up body upstairs bridal style, careful on the stairs. He leaves the house, slamming the door behind him.

Zed carefully enters the room. She slowly changes the bedsheet, hiding the restraints under the bed. She cleans the room as thoroughly as she can, she takes her time. The room smells of death and sweat, but there's also soothing, warm, flowery scent. She can't find the source of it, so she can only guess she is smelling something only she can detect. It makes her feel better like there is something more than hopelessness of agonising death in this room.

When she is done two hours later, the only feeling she has in the room is sadness. The stench of death is gone, the smell of flowers is fading.

John is nowhere to be found.

When she goes outside, it's already dark. The forest around the house is quiet, almost peaceful. Since she has met John, she has become a little bit more afraid of the dark, but the flowery scent from earlier made her feel safer, almost protected. She tentatively starts walking on the narrow path through the trees. She can see footprints: the path was used recently. She takes out her phone and writes a quick message to Chas. She follows the path and she can't hear any suspicious sounds, like the forest decided to leave them alone and safe. She doesn't feel any danger around.

She finds a freshly made grave under a big tree, deep into the forest. There is no cross, just a pile of rocks protecting the earth from curious predators. She looks around, searching for John.

She spots his white shirt behind the tree. She slowly and quietly circles the tree to find him sitting on the ground, propped against the tree. The shovel is lying on the ground beside him. He looks asleep, but the drag he takes from the cigarette in his mouth suggests otherwise. He lets the smoke out of his nose and doesn't move. He looks worn and tired.

She sits beside him. He opens his eyes and looks at her. He takes another drag.

“Come on, you need to eat and sleep,” she suggests.

“I feel like staying here,” he replies, his voice hoarse. His eyes are red-rimmed and she doesn't have to touch him to feel his sadness. It's not surprising he doesn't want to move at all.

“I cleaned up the room,” she informs him.

“Ta,” he replies, closing his eyes again.

“You said it was his choice,” she starts after a short pause.

“And he was manipulated into this,” he replies with a sigh. He drags himself up from the ground, stiff from sitting for so long. “It's another name on the long list of people killed because of me. I'm surprised you're still here,” he admits, looking down at her.

She stands up.

“You make sure I know what we're dealing with every time you get the chance. I'm not going to be scared away,” she promises, looking into his eyes.

He smirks.

“Thanks, luv,” he replies and goes towards the house.

When they approach it, Chas' car is parked near the door. John speeds up at the sight and almost runs inside, straight into his best friend's arms, who hugs him without a word.

Zed passes them in the corridor. She knows Chas can give John what she can't. She hopes Chas can put his friend back together.

 

 


	6. Interlude3 – Phone call

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A shortie. Sorry in advance.

“Hey, it's Mick. You're not picking up your phone, so I hope that whoever listens to it is your friend and will pass it on... Anyway, the test results came back and it's positive. Too bad you couldn't wait for it, but I realise that the middle of a case is not the time and place for brotherly bonding. We made sure to swipe the samples and the results from the system, because, you know, you're a civilian and I'm in law enforcement, and considering our lines of work we probably don't wanna that connection to be too traceable. Not that I'm not happy, I am. I just want to keep this between us and I'm sure you'll understand. I hope we will meet someday outside of work to talk.”

A pause.

“I did feel incomplete. When I saw the results it was like a physical blow. Now I know how much I've been missing.”

A pause.

“I want to know you, John. Let me know if you do, too.”

“Hello, Mr Rawson? Are you still there?”

“Yes, who are you?”

“My name is Jasper Winters, I'm John Constantine's friend. He's told me about you. I just want to let you know that I will pass on the message. John is not easy to reach, but I'm sure he will be happy with the result, too.”

“Thank you.”

Call disconnected.

 

 


	7. Rage of Caliban

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter inspired by one of the funniest scenes in Con1x06 – Chas grabbing the Sword of Knight – and the fact that John showed a lot of protectiveness towards his friends in later episodes of the show.

They don't talk on the way home, John being the one behind the steering wheel. Chas spends most of the drive nursing his broken legs. He heals before they get home.

John immediately goes downstairs and puts all the artefacts on the proper shelves. Chas falters behind him, his steps heavy and tired.

John pauses at this sight. It takes a second to make the decision.

He goes to their liquor cabinet and takes a bottle of bourbon and two glasses. He sets them on the table by the fireplace, then steers Chas from his way to the kitchen and leads him towards the couch. The big man is tired enough to not resist. John makes him sit on the couch. Chas falls against the backrest. John pours the alcohol into the glasses and passes one to Chas.

“Drink,” he commands and runs towards the kitchen, hastily makes some sandwiches. Chas' glass in untouched by the time he gets back and sets the plate on the table.

“Come on, old boy, drink,” John whispers, sitting beside his friend. His brows knit in a frown.

He knows it's not about his legs. He knows he's ignored Chas before. It's time to redeem himself and the alcohol should make the whole situation a little bit less awkward. It'll be awkward no matter how much they drink, but maybe more bearable if they're under the influence.

“Will you tell me what's on your mind or do you want me to bring the Sword?” John ponders and almost kicks himself the moment those words escape his mouth.

Bloody hell, of the two of them Chas is the one to make the other talk about his problems! He's got no idea how to make his best friend talk about whatever is troubling him, but no matter how hard it's going to be, he's determined to make Chas feel better at the end of it - even if hungover. Talking helps, right?

“Oh, so it's Honesty Hour now?” Chas asks, looking at the table, still holding the glass in his hand.

“Only if you want to, bruv,” John declares and receives a questioning look in return.

He hides his uneasiness behind the glass, taking a too large gulp of the alcohol. He almost chokes. Good work, Mr Con Man, that was convincing.

“Do you want to?” Chas questions, still watching his stiff friend. “You were more than happy to drop the subject before.”

“Well, the case is over, you need it and I'm here, so...” John starts with a vague gesture of his hand.

Chas is tired and sad but thankfully not in pain anymore, so he'd happily torture John with pretending he's clueless about what his friend is talking about. But he knows it takes John a lot of effort to shut up and listen to other people's problems. Chas might as well appreciate it and make it easier for both of them.

Chas knows John cares about him as much as he cares about John. The Exorcist is happy to use Chas' taxi, towering height and multiple lives in the fight against evil, but it has never been a one-sided friendship. It began with John saving Chas' life from some demon and they would go their separate ways if Chandler wasn't so set on repaying the man. John for some reason would refuse taking money, so Chas followed him around for the next few days, in the end saving the man when the Englishman was jumped on by some thugs and had no chance to defend himself. They decided to unwind at some bar and so the bond between them was born.

And like Chas, John is capable of great sacrifice for his friend. They would risk their lives for each other, Chas taking a bullet without question and John almost selling his soul a few times. Or make them both sit on a couch with food and strong alcohol within reach, so Chas can whine and John is there to listen.

Chas knows it. And he reminds himself of it every time John is more of an asshole than usual.

“We need to get seriously drunk,” Chas warns him and John smiles.

They do talk. Or rather, Chas talks and John sits through it patiently, pouring alcohol for both of them. Chas has no doubts that John really is listening, sometimes asking questions.

So Chas lets it all go without the aid of the Sword of Knight, and it's surprisingly less embarrassing than it should be. John doesn't offer any advice, but it's not needed. They both know the reason behind Chas' marital problems and there is nothing they can do about them other than really go their separate ways, which they don't want to do.

They talk about John's successful exorcism of a kid, too. After Newcastle, the exorcist didn't want to touch a possessed kid with a ten-foot pole. They're both relieved that this time they not only freed the boy from the evil influence but also prevented more deaths, including their own. John already has vivid bruises from being tossed around by Marcello, not to mention still visible black eye from Henry's father.

It feels good, they decide silently, watching the first traces of sunlight shining through curtains upstairs. They are there for each other, through good and bad, like an old, married couple.

Zed finds them at noon, sleeping and snoring on the couch, John's thin frame holding onto his bear of a friend, Chas' arm thrown around the smaller man's shoulders. She knows from the empty bottle of bourbon standing on the table that they both will be seriously hungover when they wake up, but that doesn't stop her from taking a photo of them and throwing a blanket over their sleeping forms. They can deal with the consequences when the time comes.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know how John's and Chas' friendship began in the comics. It's my take on one of the possibilities.


	8. Interlude4 – Text messages

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guest appearances from the rest of Mick's team!  
> John in the show usually borrows other people's phones (and doesn't know Google) and he strikes me more as a talker, not a “texter”, so I tried to work out his texting style. It's about as messy as my grammar, but not messy enough, probably.  
> Big thanks to Cindar for making me expand this crossover more than I planned.

Two weeks after Mick's phone call, he received a text message from an unknown number.

' _Our parents names were Mary Anne and Thomas Constantine. Ive older sister, Cheryl, but she moved out when I was a kid and hvnt heard from her since_.'

Mick was sitting at his desk in the BAU control room, busy with paperwork. His colleagues were there, too, bored to pieces writing the reports about their latest case. He grinned at the sight of the message, drawing attention from the other agents to himself.

“Oooh, someone looks happy,” Beth called with a smile. Mick ignored her, which was unusual for him. He texted back:

' _I have a younger sister, Jenna. Our parents died when I was 10, had to take care of her_.'

He hit Send. Then he started another message:

' _I'm a sniper_.' This message was sent, too.

He waited anxiously for the reply. He was afraid John would back down after that last message, even though he didn’t strike him as an easily spooked person. Mick's shooting skills practically defined him, he was proud of them and it was one of the most important details about his life.

“Mick?”

He registered Cooper's soft question. The team leader surely tried to pose as a father figure.

“It's John Constantine,” Mick explained, “he decided to send me various details about himself.”

Mick's phone chirped again with another text.

' _Lookit u. So grown, responsible and badass_.'

Mick laughed, relieved. He saw by the corner of his eye that the other agents exchanged a curious look.

' _Playing the role of a proud older brother now?_ ', he replied. He received a response almost immediately:

' _Nah_ '

And a short while later:

' _Ur more fit for it. Except the proud part. Any plans for visiting ur homeland in the nearest future?_ '

Mick's heart started to beat faster. When he had been unable to reach John with the test results, he’d been afraid that the exorcist avoided him. This Jasper man had assured him that John would be happy having a brother, but two weeks of silence after that had made Mick doubtful again. He was almost desperate; ready to go looking for his newly found sibling, despite having no idea where to start. He would figure something out. He was an investigator after all with a lot of contacts, but he’d be reluctant to use them for a private search.

Now John practically suggested they should meet.

Stunned, he said that to Cooper.

“Do you want to?” the team leader asked. The other agents were listening to the conversation, not speaking, watching their teammate start bonding with his brother. They glanced at each other with knowing smiles: Mick was visibly happy John contacted him, so they were happy for him.

Mick slowly started to type a response and asked his boss absently:

“Would you?”

' _In a month I'm gonna spend some time at Jenna's. You're welcome to come over_ ,' he texted.

The reply came in after a minute.

' _Ill let u know_.'

Mick could barely focus on his report but managed to finish it. He didn’t touch the subject of his brother in conversations with his teammates. The others didn't push it, the topic being fresh and still developing.

Mick and John had spent an hour together before Rawson had to get back to work and Constantine was picked up by his giant of a friend. It wasn't enough time to get to know each other; they weren't even sure they were brothers, so they couldn't share any too private details. John explained he spent most of his time in the UK, and when he was in the States he lived in his friend's house in Atlanta or rented a room in NY. Mick had rented out his flat in Swansea when he had started to work for the FBI, living with his family when he came over. That was about everything they had known about each other before John decided to send the first text. The rest of that hour they spent talking about their taste in music and differences between American and British bars and pubs.

The next day Mick received another message. He was at that moment sitting in the back of Cooper's car - with the rest of his team around him - on their way to another crime scene.

' _I was a frontman for a punk band in Liverpool. Now I lead a band of misfits fascinated by the occult_.'

' _You mean ghosts, demons and magic? Do you believe it's true?_ ' Mick replied, making sure his teammates sitting on both sides of him didn’t read it over his shoulders.

His phone chirped again.

' _I dont have to believe. I know its true. Maybe ill show u someday_.'

Mick never really gave the idea of magic and ghosts too much thought, he treated it like a Halloween story, but he was ready to open his mind to whatever John wanted to show him. He wondered what Cooper thought about the prospect. The team leader very carefully avoided the topic of John's occupation.

' _Then maybe in return I can teach you how to shoot and fight_ ,' Mick offered.

' _Not while were in the uk given the gun restrictions and I fight dirty_ ,' John countered.

' _I'm looking forward to it anyway_ ,' Mick confessed, smiling to himself. He realised that he was waiting for his vacation not because of Jenna, but because of John. Sure, he was happy to see his sister, but he’d known her all her life. With John, they had twenty-nine years to fill in. John didn’t promise they’d meet anytime soon, but Mick was sure they both would do their best to spend some time together.

The next day the message came from a different number. The Red Cell was still working on another Long Distance Serial Killers' profile and Mick, reminded again what he could turn into if he became angry and stopped caring, welcomed the distraction; he started to wonder whether John had his own mobile, though.

' _I have 4 tatts, all for protection purposes_ ,' the message read.

' _I have one from my army times. My spotter has the same tat_ ,' he replied when no-one was paying attention to him.

' _Aww, soldiers loyalty_ ,' John replied. Mick still had to get used to the lack of apostrophes in John's texts. Constantine had a weird style of typing, replacing 'you' with 'u' like a teenager, avoiding apostrophes and the use of big letters when they weren't automatically corrected by the dictionary, but still kept his texts legible.

' _I'd call it stupidity, but we were young and wild_ ,' Mick texted back.

' _Im no psychologist, but wild is the last word I would use to describe u_.'

' _Based on what?_ ' he asked curiously. They barely knew each other!

' _Probably the same thing u create your killers profiles on_ ,' John replied and Mick was sure he smiled while typing it.

It was possible. Unlike his team leader, Mick had no major psychology training, he based his profiles on his natural knack for reading people. The branch of FBI he worked for was called Behavioral Analysis Unit; the ability to describe a person based on what they did was fundamental for their work, but it wasn't unique. John was interested in magic and Mick knew that sometimes – especially Derren Brown type of magic – it was more about reading other people than having quick hands.

And Mick's tattoo, placed on his side so he had to be shirtless before anyone could see it, was one of the wilder things he did in his life. Not counting his military career. And the chain of one night stands.

“You two should get a room,” Gina suggested. Mick switched his phone to vibrate.

“He's on the wrong side of the pond,” he replied absently, putting down the device.

“He?” Gina asked incredulously.

“John Constantine. My brother I met for the first time three weeks ago. Before your vivid imagination gives you too many pictures to process,” Mick replied with a wicked smile. Gina blushed, Prophet laughed at the sight.

“He's still texting you?” Prophet asked, welcoming the distraction.

“Yeah. Apparently he decided to let me know the worst of it before we meet.”

“Okay, sibling shenanigans aside, I think I found our killer,” Beth announced from her laptop. They gathered around her. Mick's phone did not vibrate with a new message anymore that day.

On the fourth day, John again texted from a different number.

' _Tell cooper I wont try to turn u to my devious occult ways. Im sure hes worried_.'

Mick at that moment was lying on his couch with an icepack to his face. Texting one handed was difficult. He was so glad he had a day off.

' _Well, tell Chas the same. I just got a nice shiner from a boyfriend of a certain female who wasn't supposed to have one_ ,' he typed and hit Send.

That really hadn't been one of the best moments of his life.

Chas The Bear Cabbie was the only one of John's friends Mick knew about (he didn't know of the role Jasper played in John's life), and only because they had met him in San Francisco. The two were obviously close, with Chas being protective and John more open around the man.

This time John called back. When Mick picked up, his dear older twin brother was laughing hysterically.

“Oh boy, seriously? I'm so proud of you right now!” John managed to say between bouts of laughter.

“Yeah, thanks a lot, mate, I really appreciate it,” Mick replied dryly, silently glad to hear his brother's voice again. He knew they had similar voices, but John's Liverpool accent gave it a certain edge. It was interesting to listen to it.

“No, really, I'm proud. We have more in common than I thought,” John assured him, his laughter subsiding.

“Oh yeah?”

“Oh yeah,” John confirmed proudly.

Mick wasn't in the mood to dwell on it any further.

“Changing the subject, do you actually have a phone?” Mick asked.

“No, but as you can see, we manage to contact each other just fine.”

“You manage to contact me.”

“From my friends' phones. If you need me, call any number you got my texts from.”

“Okay,” Mick replied and with that, they ended the call. So much for keeping their blood relation to themselves, but Mick decided that John probably knew what he was doing.

The exchange of messages continued until the day Mick went on his vacation, with two or three calls in the meantime. John used three different numbers during that time. Then it was quiet for four days, during which Mick was too busy to worry about it. He and Jenna spent almost every minute together; talking, shopping, watching movies, going to pubs, and Mick also helped a little around the house.

He, of course, told Jenna about John. Jenna knew Mick had been adopted, but he was just an older brother to her, the lack of blood relation being absolutely irrelevant. They were family; they had the same surname, spoke with the same accent and suffered the same loss when their parents had died. But for her, John Constantine would be Mick's brother only, not hers. She wasn't sure she wanted to share her brother with someone else. She also was one of the very few people aware of a silent conflict Mick was going through right now: as proud Welshman as he was, he was apparently born Constantine and English. He had never wondered about his origins before, fine with what he was raised. She hoped that this John figure would not try to make the situation more complicated.

On the fifth day, when Mick started to feel a little bit bored and Jenna was out at the moment, the doorbell rang. Mick went to open the door.

The familiar figure of his twin brother stood at the doorstep. Dressed - as before - in suit pants, white shirt and a red tie, presenting a stark contrast against Mick's dark jeans and worn-out, long-sleeved t-shirt with holes for his thumbs. They stared at each other for a short while, John taking in his sight and Mick wondering how the hell John found him because Mick for some reason hadn’t given him Jenna's address. Well, John hadn't asked, that's why.

“Hello, brother,” they said simultaneously and smiled.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the UK it's very hard to legally own a gun. John in “Arrow” certainly could shoot well enough to put holes in tires in the first try and Mick was described as one of the best snipers in the world, so.  
> The use of "mobile" instead of "cell phone" was intentional. I know I probably mix British and American English (I started to write it more in US English, Lucy is correcting it back to UK English), but this time I knew what I was doing. ;)  
> And, shame on me for checking the names of John's family and not the origins of his and Chas' friendship. I'll whip my back with pasta (uncooked).


	9. The saint of last resorts pt.2

John's body is stiff, sore, bruised, and he feels like he lost a few years of his already short lifespan. He tries to hide it, but Chas still hovers close to him on his way to the bathroom.

John locks the door and almost falls against it. He's barely able to keep himself upright. He can't unbutton his shirt due to his stiff and shaking fingers; he takes it off by pulling it over his head and has to suppress a moan when his shoulders complain about it. He somehow manages to free himself of his trousers and underwear. The edge of the bathtub seems high like Mount Everest.

First, he finds some painkillers in the cabinet. A simple acetaminophen; considering his heroin ride he's reluctant to take anything stronger. He takes two tablets and again looks at the bathtub.

He opens the faucet and adjusts the water temperature to lukewarm. He brushes his teeth and when the tub is half-full, he closes the faucet and as gingerly as he can, he lowers himself into the water.

He manages not to fall in or splash the water around. He feels like drowning himself; instead, he takes a bar of soap and starts to wash the blood, sweat and grime off his body. By the time he's finished, the water is cold, but that doesn't bother him. He feels more awake now, but no less pathetic.

Getting out of the bathtub is harder than getting in. He slips a few times, careful not to fall; a few quiet fucks escape his mouth before he can set his feet firmly on the floor. He's cold, but he feels more alive than half an hour ago. He dries himself quickly, finds a clean shirt and pants.

When he joins his friends downstairs, the girls are whispering and Chas has already finished cleaning up. The light is back on, the bed is put aside.

He tries to apologise to Anne Marie. She doesn't accept. He tries to thank Chas and Zed. They don't accept. Chas takes the car keys to give Anne Marie a lift to the airport. Zed gathers her things and leaves, too. He doesn't blame them, they all need to unwind after the last two days.

John is left alone. Lonely, still in pain and full of self-hate. He wants to cry. He doesn't let it show.

* * *

Zed knows that driving around is not the best idea after what happened to her when John and Chas left for Mexico. She buys some takeaway with plans of eating it later when she's safely locked in her flat.

When she's about to leave the parking lot, she allows herself to think about John. She left the millhouse about half an hour ago, she wonders what he's doing.

She's suddenly hit with a feeling of pain and loneliness so deep that she gasps and can't move. It takes some time to recover, but by then she knows what a mistake she's made when she left the exorcist alone. She tries to call John, but he doesn't pick up. She tries Chas. He answers after the second signal.

“Where are you?” she asks, starting the engine of her truck.

“At the airport,” Chas replies. He sounds drained.

“Are you going back to the millhouse?”

“Don't think so.”

“John needs us,” she stresses.

“He had us for the last two days, I don't think I can handle looking at him...”

“Anne Marie told us that it would be the demon speaking,” Zed interrupts, “John trusted you enough to ask you to kill him if his soul was lost. We accuse him of not listening to us, but that's exactly what we just did to him: he still needs us, he's hurting, and we left him on his own!”

“What do you want?” Chas asks, irritated, but there is some hesitation in his voice.

“I want both of us to go back there and help our friend get back on his feet,” she barks in reply, ends the call and drives straight to the millhouse.

When she arrives, she runs into the house and downstairs, calling John's name and getting no response.

She finds him lying curled up on the couch, shirtless, with the triangular tattoo on his shoulder blade strangely lit up. His eyes are closed, his expression pinched; there's a strange book under his hand and he's murmuring something, repeating some phrase in a language she doesn't understand, but she remembers him using it quite a few times when casting spells. He looks like he's in pain.

When she tries to touch him, she feels a pang of electricity. A bead of blood appears on the tattoo and John grits his teeth and repeats the spell.

“John!” she calls, frantic now, but she's afraid to touch him, to interrupt him. His tattoo is bleeding and she has no idea what's happening.

She hears him recite the same phrase two or three more times, and then John gasps and opens his eyes, blinking slowly. He takes a deep breath, his eyes unseeing.

He notices her when she gathers the courage to touch his shoulder (no electricity this time) and call his name again.

“Hey, luv, what are you doing here?” he mumbles, his voice tired and hoarse.

“I'm checking up on you,” she replies, crouching by him. He doesn't move from his curled-up position, he starts to shiver. “What are you doing?”

“I had to lift my protections before Pazuzu possessed me. I'm trying to cast them again,” he explains, blinking slowly.

“The tattoo is bleeding,” she says.

“Oh,” is John's reply, but he doesn't move.

Zed runs to the kitchen and brings a wet cloth. She wipes the blood.

“Come on, John, you're in no condition to do this right now. I've bought some takeout, I can share. Thai?” she offers. He smirks. His distaste in grease is legendary, apparently.

She helps him sit up, puts a blanket around his bare shoulders. He looks miserable, worse than he was after his almost deadly encounter with Papa Midnite in Chicago.

“Will you eat?” she asks, putting the food on the table.

“I can try,” he offers. She gives him one of the boxes and brings a fork, but he's picking at the food and finally, she notices that his hands are shaking. She takes the plastic container with a soup to the kitchen, finds a clean bottle and a funnel and pours the soup into the bottle. She brings it back to him and exchanges it for the box.

“Chicken broth,” she says at his questioning look. He takes a tentative sip and the look on his face is even more miserable. He's embarrassed, she realises. He can't even eat normally and she's there to see it.

She sits by him on the couch and focuses on her food, trying to not look at him. She notices wide, reddish bands around his wrists and winces at the memory of his exorcism. No wonder he's barely moving, how could they expect him to be fine after something like this?

When her box and his bottle are empty, Zed moves again to gather their medical supplies.

By the time she joins him again, he is sitting cross-legged under the blanket and stares blankly into the fire. She crouches by him and touches his knee.

“Do you need painkillers?” she asks softly.

“No, I took some before,” he replies, not looking at her. She doesn't believe they're enough, but she doesn't push the subject; she gingerly takes one of his hands and probes around the wrist. He doesn't resist, but she hears him hiss when she touches a more bruised spot. She starts to wrap the wrist with a bandage, careful not to hurt him. He lets her. She repeats the same procedure on the other wrist and when she glances at his face, he's staring at her with wide eyes.

“What are you doing here, luv?” he wonders, “Why are you still here? Why didn't you run off like a sensible person?”

She knows it's not about now, but her involvement in general. He sounds like he wants her to run. He thinks she's not safe and he wants to protect her.

She takes a deep breath.

“Because with you I feel that I use my gift for something good, something important,” she replies, running her hand over his knee soothingly. “I feel needed, like I'm helping, not used. I want to be here, John.”

He is still staring at her, reading her like a book.

“What happened to you while we were gone to Mexico?” he asks her. She pauses. She wants to say 'nothing', but she knows he saw something and he wouldn't believe her.

“I will tell you,” she assures him, “when you're better, okay? When you're rested and not falling asleep with your eyes open. I promise.”

He nods, letting it go for now.

“Can you move?” she asks, standing up.

“Not really,” he admits with a crooked smile.

“Come on, let's get you to bed,” Zed orders, helping him get up.

“I thought you'd never ask,” John replies.

“Really?” she admonishes, sceptic.

“Can't help it,” he admits and stands up with a grunt. He allows her to lead him up the stairs and into his bedroom, where she throws the bedding to the side. He sits down on the bed heavily and bends to take off his shoes, but she gently slaps his hand away and does it for him. He sits there, looking at her as tidies up the room, brings him a bottle of water and painkillers from the bathroom. He grabs her hand when she walks past him and stops her.

“Letting Pazuzu in was one of the most stupid things I ever did,” he admits, looking at the floor, “We were about to be attacked by the Invunche, Annie tried to protect the babies, so she shot me. I needed to defend myself and not bleed out, so...”

Zed crouches in front of him, looks at his sad, tired face.

“But I asked a demon for help, not my orderly angel,” John continues and looks into her eyes. “And then I put you all through my own personal hell.”

“You couldn't trust a nun,” she starts.

“No, I couldn't, could I,” he interrupts and squeezes her delicate fingers in his calloused hand, “Thank you, Zed, although I really don't understand why you stick around.”

She smiles at him.

“You’re welcome,” she assures him. He nods and smiles slightly. These are the words he needed to hear before and she feels guilty for disregarding him then. “John, I really am here because I want to. I’m not forced. Nothing other than that keeps me here.”

He smiles again and she hopes he believes her this time.

“Come on, get some sleep. The protection spells can wait until later,” she orders, letting go of his hand and standing up.

“They're like comfy undies, you know?” he offers, laying down with a grunt. “You don't remember them most of the time and when they're gone, you feel naked.”

“I'm sure the house and your orderly angel can protect you for a while,” she replies and suddenly there's this flowery scent again she remembers from the time Gary was...

She stops that thought before she can finish.

She sees John glance toward the door, but she doesn't see anything there.

“Yeah, sure,” he admits and closes his eyes. She covers him with a duvet and thinks about leaving him alone, but she changes her mind and sits beside him, watching him fall asleep. He curls up on the bed, keeps one bandaged hand under his head.

She remembers his struggle to keep Pazuzu inside. She remembers his right hand, right under the brand, moving like a claw; she remembers his growling, his red-rimmed eyes, wet with tears of desperation and pain; the blood on his shirt and his body. She remembers how desperate he was, how he wanted them to stay away, how hard he fought to keep them safe; how drained he looked during the whole ordeal.

She watches him sleep, tired, pale and hurting and realises she feels safe with him. Yes, she saw one of his friends die and the other hate him. But she's never had a vision of her being hurt because of him.

“You're a good man, John Constantine,” she whispers and runs her hand through his unruly hair.

 


	10. Interlude5- Sparring

The gym was empty, save for the resident BAU Red Cell team. Mick and Prophet were busy sparring, but they both registered someone entering the gym. They noticed dark pants and a tan trench coat on a slim, blond man, but they were too focused on each other to recognise the figure.

The sudden silence that fell between the two female agents, who up to this moment were talking and then finally noticed the stranger, made the sparring men pause and look at the newcomer.

John Constantine was standing at the edge of the mat with his hands in pockets of his coat, watching them with an expressionless face.

“John!” Mick exclaimed, abandoning his sparring partner and threw himself at his brother. Constantine managed to stay upright, but only barely. Mick's teammates noted that the brothers remained in the hug for a few seconds, whispering to each other.

“What are you doing here?” Mick asked quietly.

“Just got back from Jasper's funeral,” John replied tiredly and let go of his brother, “I have the flight back home tomorrow morning, thought we could...”

“Sure, yeah,” Mick assured him, “I'm sorry about Jasper, seemed like a decent bloke.”

John only nodded and looked around.

“Lovely office,” he said louder. Prophet, Gina and Beth exchanged looks.

“John Constantine,” Cooper greeted him on his way down from the office. “Haven't seen you since San Francisco.”

“Yeah, I wasn't really willing to be seen by any law enforcement agency, to be honest,” John admitted with a smile and shook Cooper's hand.

“John, this is the rest of my team, Gina LaSalle, Beth Griffith and Jon 'Prophet' Simms,” Mick introduced them, each agent nodding his or her head.

“This is surreal,” Gina admitted. Beth and Prophet agreed. The brothers were similar in so many ways, yet distinct in others.

John snorted, picking up a Kali stick.

“Can I give it a try?” he asked, waving the stick around.

“How about being beaten by your own brother?” Mick offered while John took off his coat, suit jacket and tie.

“Be gentle with me,” John asked and went to the middle of the mat.

They exchanged a few taps before John decided to be serious, letting go of his frustration. It wasn't about the fight, but spending some energy and everyone in that gym knew that.

He attacked Mick again, who focused on the defence, letting John tire himself. It was obvious that John had no real fighting experience; Mick was quicker and more fit than his brother, more muscled, too. John was thin under his well-fitted clothes, but thanks to them he seemed taller and having longer legs than Mick, even though they had the same body type. Mick was used to hiding his frame with layers of baggy clothing, John wore his white shirt and black pants like a uniform.

“So, how do I profile?” John asked between the jabs at his brother. No-one replied. John glanced at Beth. “Huh, agent Griffith? What can you say about your teammate's brother?”

“You really wanna hear this?” Beth asked. They all knew how Mick reacted to their profiling of LDSKs. They learned to use that abbreviation instead of the word 'sniper'.

“Sure,” John admitted lightly, aiming the stick at Mick's butt. The Welshman expertly deflected the blow with a laugh.

“Based on what we know...” Beth started reluctantly and stopped.

“Come on, Agent Griffith, you don't strike me as a person who doesn't say what she thinks!” John dared from the other end of the gym, chased there by Mick.

“Man, you got that right!” Prophet called happily and received a fist to his shoulder in thanks.

“You profile like a con man,” Cooper started, “Intelligent and witty, good at reading people. Not a major threat to society, unlikely to kill, but with dubious morals.”

“Tell me something I don't know,” John retorted, ducking under Mick's stick.

“If it's any consolation, you are under a very small risk of attracting our attention,” Beth finished.

It wasn't much of a consolation. John wasn't surprised by their profiles, he was used to them, but that didn't mean he was fine with what they were saying. True, most of the things he did were illegal, but his job, things he hunted, were real. He knew his anger was normal: they disregarded something very important to him, but something they did not believe in. He didn't think about himself as a warrior against supernatural evil, far from it. Maybe he had hoped that with a devout Catholic on the team, they would take more things of faith.

Or maybe he was just fooling himself.

Well, time to show them something.

John seemingly ignored her, waved a hand like he was asking for a break. He turned away from them and hung his head, breathing hard. After a few seconds, he turned back to them and started to wave the stick around again.

“And how do you profile a magician?” he asked, looking at Cooper. There was something different about the look in his eyes and everyone noticed it; Mick did, too, but he didn't react.

“As more unpredictable than a con man,” Cooper replied seriously. John smiled, but this smile was cold and dangerous.

“Able to kill?” he asked. His voice was colder, too.

“Not really, maybe in self-defense, but that applies to the most of the population,” Beth cut in, “But a magician is more likely to disappear in the middle of the investigation.”

John signalled to Mick to attack him again.

Suddenly his slim body looked stronger and faster. There was wiry energy to it, like a coiled spring ready to be released. He was angry and he was letting them know that.

They knew something happened. They didn't know what. John just proved he really was unpredictable and he didn't even do anything. Yet.

Mick was happy to join the show. He had seen it before, he knew what that look in John's eyes meant. He had ignored their scepticism, too. While John refused to teach Mick anything about what he could do, he made it obvious that magic and occult were his life. Mick understood it enough to respect John's life choices and promise to support him when required. He took his team's reaction somewhat personally, but it was John's job to defend his beliefs.

This time, when their sticks clashed, sparks flew from the one in John's hand.

The sticks were wooden. They weren't supposed to sparkle.

“How about adding a little magic?” John asked. Mick seemed unperturbed, he even smiled, but the rest of his team gaped at them.

They sparred like this for five more minutes, sparks flying. Silent words murmured during the fight changed the colour of the sparks. John got lost in the fight, fierce, fast and angry, but Mick, not at all surprised by the fireworks, was more than capable of standing against him.

In the end, John threw his stick to Cooper, who caught it expertly and did not say a word. Mick approached him and patted the stick in Cooper's hand with the one he was holding. There were no sparks.

Mick gave his boss the stick, looking at Cooper with eyes full of challenge, ready to defend his brother. They stared at each other for a few seconds; John remained at the far edge of the mat, watching them, calming down.

“Do you need the afternoon off?” Cooper asked finally. Mick found it somewhat funny how careful Cooper was to not touch the subject of John's work and abilities. This wasn't the first time they were talking about John, but Cooper never, not even once, mentioned what he thought about Constantine's connection to the occult. Mick could guess, though, knowing how devoted Christian Sam was. His boss didn't mention anything probably out of respect for the member of his team.

Well, now at least he knew more. Maybe they would stop profiling John like a criminal.

“If I can,” Mick replied.

“Go for it, you two don't have too many occasions to spend time together,” Cooper allowed. Mick nodded and went to the office to gather his things. John was waiting on the other side of the mat, his jacket and coat folded over his arm; he was looking at the agents with a slight smile.

“I can feel your disapproval from here,” he called to them. Gina and Prophet smiled at the humorous note of his voice, the tension from earlier practically gone. They were glad it was over. They guessed that the profile John had heard was not the only reason he had got angry, but thankfully he hadn't used that anger directly against them.

“I can't imagine you're too happy with Mick's occupation, either,” Beth called back. John came closer.

“Yeah, well, I'm the one considered a con man by most people who have no idea what I'm doing. His job is brutal and set firmly in reality,” he replied, his smile gone; he was serious again, but not angry anymore. “When we met, we were twenty-nine and already doing our jobs, so we can't really ask each other to do something else. I don't touch the topic of his job and I don't let him touch mine. We know it's there, so we both try to deal with it like the almost-adjusted and not-so-grown-up men that we are.”

Mick chose that moment to go down from the office with his bag, he joined John.

“Ready to go?” he asked.

“Lead the way, brother.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I assume Jasper died some months before Newcastle and John was most likely with him when it happened.


	11. Quid pro quo

 

John watches Renee go and has a dilemma. Zed is in the hospital, all alone, and Chas is still to be recovered from the rubble of Faust's laboratory. He wants to check on the psychic, but if he misses the chance to intercept Chas' body, he may not find his friend in time of his return back to life. He can't be in two places at the same time.

Well, Zed is supposedly in good hands. And probably asleep. She has to wait.

He watches the emergency services work in Faust's lab. They wheel the bodies out half an hour later. John flicks his cigarette to the side and approaches the gurney with the taller body.

It takes a while to get the information he needs. He identifies Chas' body on the spot and demands to know where is it taken. He's given the address of the same hospital Geraldine is in. He follows the ambulance in Chas' cab, thinking up a plan.

Blown up. It will take much longer than usual for Chas to heal. Thank God he's in one piece. They've never had to test what would happen if Chas lost a limb. Or his head. That may be too much for the thirty-or-so souls Chas must have left.

When they arrive at the hospital, John locks the cab and heads straight to the morgue. On his way there he dials a number. Someone picks up despite the late hour.

“Hi, mate, it's John Constantine. Can you do me a favour? I need a hearse and a quiet place for a body to heal.”

He's met with a stunned silence.

“I hoped to never hear your voice again,” he hears finally.

“I know,” he admits, “but I’ll owe you and it's for Chas, not for me.”

Silence again. John's afraid he will be hung up on, but finally he hears:

“Give me the address.”

He does and adds:

“Thank you, mate. I owe you one.”

“More than one. Fuck you,” he hears and the call is disconnected.

It's hard for him, losing every friend he had. He used to be resourceful, people looked up to him. Newcastle and his disappearance after changed it. His huge ego was brutally deflated and he fell from a very high pedestal, but most people only saw him stumble. They didn't see how low he fell, how much he suffered, how much he cared. He couldn't complain about it, though, he couldn't shout 'Look at me, I spent six months in a mental hospital!' because that would be even worse. Thank deities he still has Chas.

When he arrives at the morgue, he faces a major problem. He can't collect the body, as he's not a family member. No matter how hard he argues, he's denied.

“Get a family member to sign this and I'll be happy to let the body go,” the pathologist says, putting two forms into his hands.

John growls but goes upstairs, hoping that Renee is in her daughter's room.

Thankfully, she is. She lets him in when he knocks on the door quietly.

“What is it?” she asks, but there's no hostility in her voice.

Geraldine is asleep.

“They brought Chas' body into the morgue,” John whispers, trying to not wake up the girl. “But they want to perform an autopsy, which won't help him heal. Can you sign this so I'll be able to take him somewhere safe?” he asks as politely as he can, giving her the forms.

“Can I see him?” she asks, reading the papers.

“No, darling, he's burned,” he replies sadly, “I'll tell him to see you as soon as he's... back.”

She stares into his eyes for a few seconds, then takes out a pen and signs the forms.

“You really care about him,” she observes.

“He's my closest mate,” John admits.

“So what happens to your friendship when he's dangerously low in the number of his lives?” she asks and still doesn't sound hostile. John starts to wonder what happened to change her behaviour so much. After the explosion, he explained to her that Chas was going to come back to life and why. Sure, his apology was sincere, but before that, nothing he'd done would make her look at him with anything close to understanding. And that's what he sees in her eyes now - she's trying to understand him and his friendship with Chas.

“The same what happened when he didn't have forty-seven of them yet,” John replies firmly, “I won't put him at risk as much. But it's always his choice. By the way.” John puts a big photo album in her hands in exchange for the forms. “He carries it around, maybe you should take a look at it.”

Renee glances inside and sees the paper clip about the club fire and photos of the victims.

“He collected these after I told him what happened,” John explains.

“You saved his life.” Renee realises, looks at John again with wide eyes.

“I saved him once and by accident,” John clarifies, “he saved me many times more and at a greater cost.”

They hear Geraldine stir on the bed.

“Mommy?” the girl whispers. Renee runs to her and kisses her forehead.

“I'm here,” she assures.

“Where's dad? Is that you, Uncle John?”

Renee steps aside to let the girl see John. The woman still has the smile glued to her face, she doesn't protest at the uncle title. John knows she hates when Geraldine calls him that. This time Renee doesn't say a word.

The exorcist gives her a short wave of his hand, hiding the forms from her sight.

“Hi, little one,” he greets the girl and approaches her bed. Geraldine smiles.

“Where's daddy?” the girl asks.

“He got hurt when he saved you. He'll be back with you in a day or two, alright, darling?” John explains with as warm smile as he's capable of, patting her small, warm hand. He notes with satisfaction that the girl isn't so pale anymore.

“My daddy saved me?” Geraldine asks in wonder. “How badly is he hurt?”

“Don't worry about it,” John assures her. He signals to Renee that he has to go. “Bye, little one,” he says to Geraldine and walks away. Renee doesn't stop him.

He has the forms. He can pick Chas up. The rest can wait.

* * *

The room in the funeral home is secluded; they are left alone. The provided bed is pretty comfortable, padded and warm. It's not a surgical table and Chas is laid out on it, not in a body bag. He's naked under the blanket, covering him from the waist down. John sits on a chair by the bed and watches his friend's body as it heals. It's a fascinating sight - open wounds knitting together, black burns turning into healthy, pink patches of skin. It's a slow and undoubtedly painful process, but Chas remains unconscious. He doesn't even breathe yet.

John isn't sure how many lives Chas has left, but he knows his friend keeps count.

He takes a break from watching Chas to visit Zed and take a nap on her hospital bed (the nurses are not happy with this). When he returns three hours later, he feels lightheaded and he wonders what his face looks like. He doesn't know if he's smiling or looking dazed. He's not even sure what he's feeling about Zed's revelation about his mother. He doesn't have a reason to not believe her, especially when he didn't really tell her the story he provided Liv. He suddenly knows how much the guilt over his mother weighed now that it's gone. Is it gone? It must be. That one sentence, 'her death wasn't your fault', was the thing he needed to hear after twenty-two bloody years of being blamed – blaming himself – for her death. He has issues.

When he sees Chas again, the man is still healing, but at least he started to breathe. John sits in the chair he occupied before and waits patiently for Chas to wake up.

Chas starts to stir about an hour later. He's mostly healed, but he starts to shiver. He wakes up with a gasp.

“Welcome back, old boy,” John greets him; he doesn't move from his chair.

Chas looks at him and slowly sits up on the bed. He looks around.

“Funeral home?” he asks dryly.

“I had to take your bear body away from the clutches of an evil pathologist somehow,” John explains, spreading his arms. “Couldn't carry you on my back, could I?”

Chas chuckles and at the last moment, he stops himself from throwing the blanket aside. John snickers at the sight and throws him a water bottle, which Chas catches. He drinks half of it before John stands up and comes to the bed with his bag.

“Brought you some clothes.”

“Thanks,” Chas murmurs and takes the bag. He sees the bruise on the side of John's jaw. “I'm sorry about that”, Chas says, pointing at it.

John startles.

“Don't mention it,” he replies, making a dismissal wave with his hand.

“No, I'm really sorry,” Chas says and there's sincere guilt in his voice.

“I deserved it, bruv,” John stresses, “I stood between you and your family and what I was doing, wasn't really working.”

“You tried to protect us all.”

“I was circling around the problem instead of solving it,” John admits, “too bad you had to sacrifice another life to get things done, but it worked, you're alive, I didn't lose my soul to Faust, Geraldine is back home and Renee hates me a little bit less, so it's a win.”

“Yeah? What did you do to make Renee hate you less?” Chas asks while putting on a shirt.

“Well, I told her that I didn't just let you kill yourself,” John replies with a shrug. “She knows you'll be back home as soon as you can,” he adds, nodding, and makes a move towards the door, intent on leaving his friend alone.

“John?”

He turns around and looks at Chas.

“Thanks for this, and...” Chas starts slowly, not looking at him. “I'm sorry I left you alone after your exorcism.”

John is startled again.

“Zed was there,” he replies slowly, not sure what to think.

“I should have been there, too,” Chas admits guiltily, looks up and sees the old pain in his friend's eyes. “You're a far better and I'm a far worse friend than people think.”

John approaches him.

“As long as we're there in the end, huh?” he replies with a shy smile.

He lets Chas pull him into a quick hug with a pat on the back and all is forgiven when they separate.

 


	12. Interlude6 - A protective spell

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Up to this point, Interludes took place before the events of “Constantine”: int2, 3 and 4 during CM:SB and 5 some time before Newcastle; hence the past tenses. This one takes place during the show, probably between eps 11 and 12, which is why it's written in present tenses.  
> Warning of a few f-words, depictions of violence and some torture, without too many details.

_An unknown man was found on the side of the road 401 near Bunnlevel, North Carolina. When confronted by the police, he managed to show the direction he had come from and then collapsed. While he was rushed to a hospital, the police checked the place and found evidence of multiple crimes, including unsolved murders from Sanford area. Because the identity of the man and his involvement in the crimes are unknown, he was placed under protective custody._

Before this makes state-wide news, Sam Cooper, sitting in a police precinct in Sanford and sick with worry, receives a message with a photo of a man lying in a hospital bed. It's unsigned, but Sam recognises the patient. Penelope manages to trace the message to a hospital in Lillington. The number it was sent from is unregistered, most likely pre-paid.

Sam uses his authority to get into the room, the rest of his team right behind. They stare at the unconscious form of Mick Rawson, horrified by the state he's in after four days of being missing: cuts, lacerations, bruises all over his body, braces on his wrists and knees, reset nose, stitches on his head...

Cooper looks at the bedside table and he sees The Magician tarot card standing there, propped by a vase with a single daffodil in it.

* * *

Chas and John are busy cataloguing Jasper's collection and Zed occupies the couch, drawing. It's a quiet day spent on non-strenuous activities, eating, and friendly banter.

Near noon, John takes a look at the scry map and at the same moment, his phone starts to ring. He rarely uses it and forgets it more often than not; he keeps it as a necessity, as the number is on his business card. This time he has to dig it up from under the map and other papers lying on the table by the gear rack in the middle of the room.

When he sees the caller ID, he glances at Chas and goes aside. Zed looks up at them curiously.

“Agent Cooper? To what do I owe the pleasure?” John starts after picking up. He listens to the other side and his smile slowly vanishes from his face, replaced by something between worry and exasperation. “So you managed to piss off a guy who has patience in his job description,” he says.

At that Chas comes to him close enough to hear the reply:

“He's patient only on his perch, you should know that by now.”

“Yeah, well, he's never had a reason to be impatient with me,” John quips, “so yeah, we're at home, we'll get everything ready.”

After that, John hangs up.

“Mick?” Chas asks.

“Yeah,” John breathes, looking at the map again. “Look.” He points at it.

They both lean over the sheet of paper.

“I'm pretty sure two minutes ago there was a wet dot over Seattle,” Chas says very carefully.

“Well, it's not there anymore,” John observes sharply and looks up.

He hears the whooshing sound he learned to associate with Manny's arrival and the silence of the stopped time. The angel is standing in Chas' place, looking at the map.

“Your brother is a good man, John,” Manny says.

“Better than me,” John admits, “so, am I allowed this one act of selfishness?”

He wonders how the dot dried so quickly. Not that he cares too much - he's glad he doesn't have to choose between the Rising Darkness and his brother, and no wet dots mean no job for him for a while. Their little adventure in North Carolina (for John it was a detour, for Mick so much more) took place two weeks ago. Mick had the time to leave the hospital, but he's probably still on a medical leave – he's mobile enough to go to Atlanta, apparently.

“He needs you more than Seattle,” Manny explains, “there will be more battles to fight, for now you're needed here.”

Manny looks at him. John manages to give him a tight smile and the smallest of nods in thanks. Manny nods back and disappears with another whoosh.

John steps away from the table and goes towards the stairs. He has to prepare a bedroom and Mick can get here any moment.

“Who's Mick?” Zed asks from the couch.

“You tell me, luv,” John replies before Chas can; he stops halfway up. Chas frowns.

“How?” Zed asks, “I don't know anything about him and there's nothing for me to touch.”

“You know Chas and I both know him, and you heard at least part of that call,” John supplies. “You can touch the vibes around his name,” he suggests, then notices Chas' frown of disapproval and adds, “but don't beat yourself up if you don't see anything, darling.”

Zed frowns at this, too, then closes her eyes and concentrates. Her hand starts to move over the paper block she still holds on her lap. John goes upstairs and they hear him rummaging around in one of the empty bedrooms. Chas watches Zed as she draws; she's glancing at the paper from time to time, drawing mostly with her eyes closed. It takes ten minutes. When she opens her eyes for the last time, she shows Chas the picture. John joins them by then.

The picture shows a distorted mirror image of John, surrounded by dark and menacing figures, one of them resembling a tattoo used by special forces.

Chas glances at John, curious what he will say.

“Well,” the exorcist breathes. “Pretty good considering you weren't supposed to see anything.”

Zed's eyebrows go up.

“John has him under a protective spell. He should be invisible,” Chas explains.

“Either the spell was damaged or you're that powerful,” John supplies.

“And who is he?” Zed asks, worried. “There was a lot of darkness and danger around this image, but you don't seem concerned. And why the mirror image?”

“You're about to find out and he's not dangerous to us,” John replies. At that moment they hear the front door opening. John shoots them a look and darts upstairs, Zed only slightly slower behind him and snickering Chas walking after them without hurry.

When Zed gets upstairs, John is standing in the way and she can't see the newcomer. She only sees a small bag and dark and loose clothing on a slim, male figure.

When John hears her and steps aside to reveal the face of their guest, Zed does a double take. John snickers at this and the other man just smiles a little tiredly. They are used to that, apparently.

“Mick, meet Zed, our orderly psychic. Zed, this is Mick.”

Mick gives her a little wave of one hand. Zed stares at him, his face the exact copy of John's, but topped with dark hair, looking like it was shorn close to the skin about two weeks ago and is now growing back without grooming.

She shakes herself, and over the differences and similarities between him and John she notices his hunched posture, healing cuts on his face, head and exposed parts of his arms, and the darkness in his eyes. This man went through hell not long ago and she can guess he came here to overcome the memories.

“Nice to meet you,” she greets him and Mick responds with a one-sided smile. He nods to Chas, who joins them upstairs and nods back.

“Not that it's not a pleasant surprise, but what are you doing here?” John asks, turning back to his brother.

“I'm trying to escape Coop's mother-henning,” Mick replies and Zed notices the accent; her curiosity is increased.

“And you got yourself straight into Chas' mother-henning, bruv,” John replies with a snort. “I don't know what's worse.”

“Well, it will be easier to say 'sod off' to Chas than Cooper. No hard feelings, mate,” Mick addresses Chas and the man waves him off.

“I don't think it will be easier to get rid of the mother hen this way,” John adds.

“Don't care. I just can't stand looking at Coop's worried face twenty-four seven, and my sister back in Swansea would be even worse.”

They look at each other for a second or two and then John takes his bag and with a firm hand on Mick's arm he leads his brother towards the bedrooms. Chas and Zed remain in their spots, watching them go, worry visible in the eyes of both of them. Zed guesses Chas met Mick before and they are probably friendly, but Zed doesn't have to know the man to read the reason behind his posture and facial expression.

'He's tired,' Zed realises. 'Overwhelmingly tired.'

The brothers reach the prepared bedroom and disappear behind the closed door.

  
* * *

John is perfectly capable of being a mother hen as well. He doesn't let Chas and Zed into Mick's room and he hovers close to his brother most of the time. He's not there at beck and call, trying to not be too obnoxious, and apparently it's good enough for Mick; he reappears in the evening, goes downstairs to eat something.

Zed has one thousand questions, but she's afraid to ask them. John didn't say who Mick is to him or what he does for a living. She can guess they are brothers considering their body types and identical faces, but different accents and the expression Mick used, 'my sister in Swansea', put a big question mark on that relation. Swansea is in Wales, as she managed to check, and John is proud of being from Liverpool, England. On the other hand, the enthusiasm John showed at the news of Mick's arrival was different to his behaviour towards his friends (the ones who don't hate him).

So she watches Mick as he prepares himself a sandwich and a cup of coffee. Mick catches her doing that with a quick glance in her direction. She still occupies the couch, pretending to be busy with another drawing. John is upstairs and Chas left for a while, so they're alone.

“We're brothers,” Mick says suddenly, putting a piece of fresh carrot in his mouth. He takes his plate and cup to the table, chewing on the way. She makes room for him on the couch; he flops down heavily and sets his food on the table. “Twins, to be exact, John is older,” Mick adds and takes a big bite of his sandwich. He looks at her and a small smile appears on his face. He swallows. “You want to know so much, yet you don't want to intrude, eh?”

She returns the smile.

“I've known John for some time and he or Chas never mentioned you,” she admits.

“They had a reason not to,” Mick replies and bites his sandwich again. When he doesn't say anything beyond that, Zed gives him a meaningful look. He snorts at it. “What?”

She shakes her head with a raised eyebrow. She already knows that getting anything from him will be difficult.

“John's told me about you, though. Should I be afraid to touch you, love?” Mick asks, taking a sip of his coffee. He doesn't look afraid and she is sure he doesn't care about whatever she would tell him. He's perfectly relaxed and feels at home. She wonders whether he's been here before.

“What happened to you?” she asks instead of replying, just like he did.

This time he decides to give her something.

“Got into trouble some time ago; I still have to get back on my feet and my boss-acting-mother-hen pissed me off, so I came here,” Mick replies with a shrug. He finishes his sandwich, wipes his mouth with a napkin and then throws it over his shoulder without looking — right into a rubbish bin.

“Show off!” they hear John call as he walks down the stairs.

“What?” Mick feigns innocence with a playful smile.

“Be careful around that one, darling, he has a rep,” John says to Zed.

“And you don't?” Zed replies with an eye-roll.

“You seem immune to British charm, but this nasty sod hides a few tricks up his sleeves,” John claims with a warning wag of a finger towards his brother.

Zed glances at Mick, she's met with a perfectly innocent expression on his face and she laughs.

She realises she has no idea what Mick does for a living. The feeling of danger around him is still there, but the man himself is perfectly pleasant and nice. She doesn't know how he could get into such trouble to have him stiff and slightly limping two weeks later. The man was put through a serious wringer, but she's afraid to ask for details.

Some things about him don't add up. She is willing to leave this mystery until morning though – John grabs three beers from the fridge and delivers them to the couch. She has to make room for him, too, so she's left in the corner; watching them, listening to some stories, laughing with them and coming to a tentative conclusion that for some reason the twins weren't raised together.

* * *

She wakes up at seven in the morning. Passing the table she glances at the map: still dry. She makes herself some breakfast and only after eating it she goes looking for the brothers, taking two bottles of water with her.

She finds them outside, on a clearing near the house. They use wooden clubs to spar, the sounds of wood clashing echoing among trees around them. The fight isn't too intense, but they are both sweaty. She watches them for a while, then John calls for a break.

“Wow, so you own clothes other than suit pants and white dress shirts!” she comments on John's attire.

Both brothers are dressed in black sweatpants, loose grey t-shirts and sneakers.

“Those are Mick's,” John replies, panting.

“Convenient, huh?” Mick adds, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt. He's about as thin as John, but faint abs are visible.

She notices two tattoos on his torso while it's exposed. One of them, on his side, looks exactly like one of the symbols from her drawing yesterday. The other on his lower back is a simple triangle, just like John's tattoo on his shoulder-blade.

“Morning workout?” she asks, offering the water.

“Gotta keep in shape, love,” Mick replies with a smile, takes a bottle with a nod and swallows half of its contents in one go.

“I've never seen John exercising,” Zed admits, smiling. John shoots her a glare.

“Because I don't,” he replies and there's a note of pride in his voice. “This one keeps the average of fitness between the two of us,” he adds, pointing at Mick.

“I'm going for a run, care to join me?” Mick asks with a smug smile, John flips him off. “That's a no then. See ya in half an hour,” he says and takes off along the trail into the woods.

Zed watches him go for a while; after he disappears between the trees, she turns to John. The exorcist stares at her like he's daring her to say something.

She wants to. Mick is a mystery she wants to solve. He's intriguing, even more than John. She at least knows SOMETHING about her friendly exorcist. Mick is a big white spot on her map.

They stand there, looking at each other in silence. Zed is the first one to break the eye contact, giving up hope of learning more about the mysterious Welshman. John starts walking towards the other trail, then takes off in a leisurely trot. She doesn't go after him.

John finds Mick on his way back to the house, a few minutes out. They stop on the trail, John a little bit more tired than Mick. The brunet smirks at John's lack of fitness.

“Oh, come on, Mr SAS,” John grumbles, turning back towards the house. Mick laughs. They walk in silence for a while, their hands in pockets of their sweatpants.

“What happened to you, mate?” Mick asks suddenly, looking at him.

“When?” John returns the question, watching the trail.

“When you disappeared a few months ago. I promised to kick your ass for that, but I don't think you deserve it. And recently, you look like hell,” Mick clarifies. John wants to glare at him. Mick was the one tortured two weeks ago and he tells him John looks like hell.

“I fucked up. Seriously. Twice,” John replies instead and from the tone of his voice Mick knows that his brother really doesn't want to talk about it, so he doesn't ask for details. He doesn't have to because John continues: “Couldn't exorcise a girl, got her killed and myself damned to hell. And a few weeks ago I let myself be shot, possessed by a demon king and then exorcised. Typical Wednesday in my line of work, honestly,” he says with a shrug. “You should worry about yourself.”

“Coop told me you found me in North Carolina,” Mick says and at a sidelong look from his brother, he adds, “the card wasn't really subtle.”

“I found your unconscious carcas in a hospital,” John clarifies, “I got there too late. Sanford was a case for me, not for you. I'm sorry I got there only after you managed to escape.”

Mick stops in the middle of the trail. The house is visible between the trees. Zed is probably inside, as they can't see her.

“I still don't know what was going on there,” he confesses with a frown. John turns to him and prompts him for more details with a gesture. “They jumped on me. I woke up in that house. There was a leader and his three feral underlings. The three couldn't touch me.”

“These three were possessed by lesser demons. After I found you in the hospital, I tracked them down and sent them where they belong,” John replies, remembering the blood in the house where Mick was kept. He shudders at the memory. He knows most of it was Mick's - his brother is lucky to still be alive. His military training and stamina were what probably saved him and allowed him to escape. “I told you you're under a protective spell, the tattoo enhances it,” John explains, looking into Mick's eyes, making sure his brother understands him. “Demons and the like don't see you, even Zed should have a problem to use her psychic powers on you. If the leader could touch you, that means he was the only one not under evil influence.”

“And he was the worst,” Mick admits, crossing his arms. He looks like he's cold. He starts to avoid John's eyes.

“If his underlings could have laid their hands on you, you would be dead after a few hours,” John says and he has to work really hard to block the images. “I know it's not too much of a consolation, but I'd prefer you recovering for weeks than dead and in pieces for eternity.”

“This is what you deal with every day?” Mick asks and there's a mix of fear and wonder in his voice. He glances at his brother. “This is your job? Demons, dismembered people, blood and hell?”

“Is it that different from what you deal with on daily basis, brother?” John replies seriously, watching him. “You fight your own kind of demons, ones that you can't protect yourself from with a tattoo and a spell. My job is easier because I know I deal with hell spawn and you have to watch how evil people can be on their very own.”

Mick regards him for a second or two and then deflates with a sigh. He suddenly can't stop shaking, his heart starts to beat erratically, sounds of the forest fade into silence. He feels someone's hands on his shoulders, but his eyes are unseeing.

He sees the man who tortured him for four days; cutting into him with sadistic glee, beating him up, waking him up with a bucket of ice-cold water. It's like his time as a POW in Iraq, long before he started to work for Cooper. It lasted longer then; weeks, not days. The feeling of hopelessness was deeper then. He managed to escape that one, too. He almost died on his way out.

The memories from that time mix with his most recent nightmare.

He sees the man's three servants, dehumanised creatures, communicating in growls and grunts. When they tried to touch him, it was like they were burned by his skin. They didn't know the reason. Mick could guess, but he wasn't willing to provide the answer to his captors.

The leader figured it out on the fourth day. That day, Mick woke up on the floor, untied, and the man had a knife in his hand and he started to cut into Mick's triangular tattoo on his back. Mick's training switched on and he moved on instinct. Ten minutes later he was standing in the middle of a bloodbath, holding the knife in a death grip, panting. Four bodies laid on the floor. He ran.

“Mick!” He hears. He's shaken, but he doesn't react.

He jumps when he's slapped in the face; when his eyes focus, he sees John looking guilty and panicked.

“Sorry, I'm sorry, bruv, are you with me?” John asks frantically.

“How did you find me?” Mick asks absently, his slapped cheek burning slightly.

“Got a tip,” John replies, keeping his hands on Mick's shoulders. “I'm so, so sorry I got there so late.”

“Not your fault,” Mick mumbles, still shaking, and suddenly he feels John's thin arms around his back and his hand in his way too short hair and his stubbly chin on his shoulder. He starts to sob, then cry. He returns the hug, hears a voice similar to his, saying 'sorry, so sorry' with that familiar, sharp, Liverpool accent.

They stand there, in the middle of the trail. Mick barely registers that someone much bigger than both of them covers them with a blanket, then steers them towards the house, murmuring reassuring words with deep, male voice full of worry. He wants to hate it, but he feels drained and safe for the first time in over two weeks. He goes where they want him to. He can let it go for a while.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Daffodil is a symbol of Wales. So is leek, but it wouldn't look good in a vase. ;)  
> I added “John is a hugger” as a tag for this story. He's not exactly tactile in the show, though...  
> Some previous chapters were edited more than just correcting grammar mistakes. For example, Mick's tattoo from interlude5 is no longer "carefully neutral". The changes weren't big (just a few words here and there) and the plot remains the same. :)  
> The piece about Mick's time as a POW was inspired by an awesome fanfiction on ff.net, “Paying the ferryman” by maleshka from CM:SB fandom. I deeply recommend it.


	13. Blessed are the damned

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Because I love little scenes of comfort after the hurt, filled with dialogues.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's the last promised missing scene from "Constantine". I know it's out of turn, but putting it in the right order requires too much deleting ;). I have two epilogue chapters left to publish, but my beta made me realise I have to rewrite them somewhat to not make one of the characters seriously OOC, so stay tuned for more crossovers in - hopefully - a few days.

John finds something in his bag to wrap the heart in and puts it in the trunk of Zed's car. The psychic is still shaken, practically unresponsive, not sure what's happened. John puts his coat on her shoulders and leads her to the car, then sits behind the wheel and drives straight to the camp. They don't talk, Zed basically out of it, so John assembles their tent while trying to keep a close eye on her. She sits still on the passenger seat, leaning on the window and staring straight ahead. He knows she's shaking a little.

He gets their possessions on the backseat, makes sure the heart is safe in the corner of the trunk and starts the engine again. He glances at Zed from time to time and tries to concentrate on the road; he doesn't talk, only a slight movement of his facial muscles indicates that he's grinding his teeth and thinking intensely.

“You radiate worry, you know that?” Zed asks suddenly, not looking at him and John huffs.

He smiles at her. “I can guess what you're going through right now, luv,” he admits. “The next few days won't be easy for you, prepare for nightmares.”

“I don't see anything. I mean, my mind is blank,” she confesses with a slight shake of her head, still looking ahead.

“Give it time. You're shaken, I'm sure you'll be alright,” he assures her and pats her hand lying on her thigh.

She turns to him, still leaning her head on the window.“How do you know all this? I mean, I know it's your job, but you're like an encyclopedia,” she admits.

John barks out a short laugh and grips the steering wheel a little bit tighter. “Knowledge is everything, luv,” he replies with a glance at her and a raised eyebrow. “The greatest mistakes come from ignorance.”

Silence falls between them; John regrets the last sentence the moment it leaves his mouth. He frowns; his grip on the steering wheel is so tight that his knuckles turn white. He's not sure how much Zed knows about Astra and he's not willing to tell the full story now. He's sure he's told it to Liv and it was one time too many.

“So, you know,” she states after a short while, still looking at him. “Angels exist, demons, ghouls... It basically means Christianity is based on facts.”

“To some extent, it is,” John admits. “To be honest, it depends on culture,” he adds with a small wave of his hand, still focused on the road; he relaxes slightly as Zed doesn't push the topic of his ignorance. “If we were, let's say, in Tibet, we would see proof Buddhism is real. We would face entirely different problems.”

“Mm,” Zed hums and turns towards the front of the car again.

They drive in silence for a while.

“So, this angel of yours... how does he look like?” she asks.

“Dark skin, grey clothes, golden eyes,” John counts out and shrugs. “Something tells me you'll meet him in person one day.”

Zed takes a deep breath and John braces for the difficult question he knows she's going to ask. “What exactly happened when Imogen...” she starts and chokes, unable to finish.

“Manny took over and killed her,” John explains shortly, putting a definite dot at the end of the sentence – he doesn't want to elaborate.

“He took over my body,” Zed realises and breathes out. She glances at John again and notices the spasms of his jaw muscles. John is grinding his teeth again.

“Not for the first time. It's a lovely habit of his,” John grinds out, forcing himself to relax.

“And he can do it every time he wants?” Zed inquires.

“Probably,” John replies with a one-sided shrug.

“Did he ever take over you?”

“No, because he's not supposed to directly interfere, as he likes to claim. He does that with others to annoy me, mostly,” John replies and silently prays for Zed to drop the subject. He doesn't want to think about the helplessness he felt when Imogen was strangling Zed and Manny disappeared. He knows he almost cried at that moment, watching Zed die and he was fully aware there was nothing he could have done. He had no chance against an angel, fallen or not. Imogen would easily kill them both.

He feels Zed's hand on his shoulder and he flinches, surprised. The hand remains on the spot.

“I'm okay, John,” she assures him and John suddenly hits the brakes and stops the car on the side of the road.

He leans forward with his forehead on the steering wheel and breathes deeply.

Zed, startled by his reaction, keeps her hand on him and stares at him with wide eyes.

John has his eyes closed, his head still bowed; it takes a short while for him to calm down.

Then he just sighs, opens his eyes, straightens, grinds his teeth again and joins the traffic without a word.

He doesn't react to Zed's hand playing with the hair on the back of his neck. Despite the fact he's not exactly tactile, the touch helps him stay focused. He knows he's just exposed himself to her, but she seems to recognise his uneasiness and doesn't push him. She just... remains there. With her hand on his neck.

John clears his throat when he feels his short breakdown will be put in the past and forgotten.“I'd want to drop off the heart at the millhouse before I drive you to your flat,” he says. Zed startles a little, his voice loud in the silence of the car.

“I won't let you take my car,” she threatens, but there's no heat in her voice.

“I won't, I'll take a taxi back to the millhouse.”

“How about I drop you and the heart off at the millhouse and drive home myself?”

“I'd rather not have you drive on your own, luv.”

“I'll be fine, I promise, John.”

He glances at her. She seems collected now, some colours returned to her face.

“You sure?” he asks.

“Yes,” she replies and takes her hand off his neck; she turns towards the side window and looks out, not really seeing anything.

He feels his hair stand up in the vacated spot. He already misses her touch.

They drive for a few more minutes in silence.

“Try maybe to sleep a little, eh?” John suggests.

Zed snorts.“What a mother hen you are, I wouldn't expect it,” she replies, smiling at him.

“I learn from the best,” John quips.

“Chas, huh?”

“You have no idea,” John replies with a fond smile.

“It's nice, isn't it? Have someone to take care of you, to worry about you.”

John hums but that's it. He doesn't say that people caring about him or for him to care about are a burden, something to lose, something he would have to grieve for later. He doesn't say anything about his morning ritual, him imagining everyone dead. Zed seems to know what she's gotten herself into, but it doesn't ease John's worry. Even watching Chas die – or knowing he's going to die – is not easy despite numerous lives Chas has. John is aware Chas is going to return to life in a few hours, but every soul lost is one soul closer to his permanent death. One day John will lose the only friend that stands beside him through good and bad.

“I can hear its beating,” Zed confesses. John listens closely and can hear it, too, over the sound of the car engine, that 'thump thump', muffled, but there, in the back of the car.

John doesn't say anything and quickly searches through a compartment to find a CD. He looks at the title on the disc.

“Ugh.” He cringes and puts the CD in the player. Mellow tunes of Zed's favourite pop music start and the psychic smiles, relaxed. John tries to hide his disdain, but unsuccessfully.

“You left some of your music here, you can put something else in, if you want,” Zed suggests, glancing at him.

John ignores her. Zed turns away from him again and starts to think.

Angels. Fallen angels. Ghouls. Miracles. Beating hearts of pure evil.

And John: caring about Imogen and then her, worrying, fighting for others, knowing it's all real. That coat on the shoulders, steady touch softly leading towards a safe place. That quiet voice and calm eyes during conversation. That urge to risk his life for others.

And disdain over other people's beliefs. The certainty that God doesn't care about them, that humans are left on their own.

' _He's so bitter because he knows_ ,' Zed realises and glances at his profile again, the sharp lines of his face, wrinkles around his eyes, pale and slightly grey hue of his skin because all his smoking, the straight nose, spiky blond hair. There's the air of arrogance around him most of the time; he lets her catch the glimpses of his good, open, caring heart only sometimes, during a crisis. He's not handsome, but he catches the eye. He's not nice, but you can't help but like him when you know him better. He's a manipulator, a real bastard when given an opportunity, but he's perfectly able to put in the music he openly hates to make you feel better.

“What?” John asks.

“Nothing,” Zed replies and looks through the windshield again, smiling with one corner of her lips.

' _You're not that mysterious, John Constantine_ ,' she thinks and allows herself to sleep for the rest of the ride, the beating of the fallen angel's heart in the trunk drowned by her music playing quietly.


	14. Epilogue part one – Preparation for the Apocalypse

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise appearance from characters of a third TV show! I've seen seven (out of over 130) episodes of that show, so my depiction of those characters may be inaccurate. Sorry in advance.  
> There will appear a character named Judith. Hardcore Constantine fans may recognise her from the released script for the 14th episode, “The final girl” (to be found online). She's also present in the comics, I'm sure ;).  
> This part is boring. Fair warning. The whole epilogue was just too long to keep it as one part.  
> There are some f-words around the middle.

John sends a message to everyone on a special list on his phone. This message contains a photo of a crypt and a text: ' _Im losin this bldy war_ '.

The first to show up is Anne Marie. She appears, sees him, gasps, disappears.

The second to show up is Chas, three hours later. He finds John's body lying in a heap on the floor of the Corrigan family crypt in New Orleans. The crypt is covered with intricate symbols and lines painted in white, some of them smeared with blood. There's too much blood for all of it to be John's; Chas has doubts about it though when he picks up his friend, beaten to a pulp but miraculously still breathing, and carries him bridal style out of the crypt.

Growling follows him.

* * *

John is discharged from hospital AMA three days later, once he's deemed stable enough to survive the travel back to Atlanta. He spends it on the backseat of Chas' taxi, sleeping most of the time. Once they're back home, Chas carries him to bed in their 'healing room' by the end of the corridor downstairs. John is so out of it that he doesn't even protest over being carried like a child – he doesn't have strength to even eat, so he lets them do what they want.

They had discovered the properties of the room a few weeks earlier when they were reading Jasper's notes about the house. Spending a few hours in the room significantly speeds up recovery from injuries, but drains the patient's energy so much he has to sleep it off. One hour in the room requires two hours of rest afterwards, but the sleep is full of nightmares. They make sure no-one is in there for longer than absolutely necessary.

John's broken bones knit together within six hours; he loses consciousness during the first ten minutes, so he doesn't have to endure the painful process. He's still so weak that Chas has to carry him again to his bedroom. It's a mercy that John's room is basically soundproofed, so they don't have to listen to his calls of anguish during nightmares. Zed tries to keep him company, but he's lashing out in his sleep and not reacting to her voice, so he's left alone by the heartbroken friends. He emerges twelve hours later, having changed from pajamas to his regular outfit, walking on his own albeit a little stiff, with a haunted look in his eyes.

By that time, the millhouse is crowded with people.

“Now that's a nice family gathering,” John observes from the top of the stairs, taken aback a little.

Mick he could expect, because he's that kind of a brother. Chas and Zed were here already. The rest of them are a surprise.

Anne Marie, dressed in her habit, stands by the bookshelf, talking quietly with Ritchie Simpson, ragged as always, and Judith, wearing her usual punk outfit, her katana nowhere in sight. The Newcastle crew is back, although all of them project reluctance to being here with their closed postures and staying away from the rest of the people.

Sam Cooper came with Mick. Rawson keeps his boss close, making sure the older agent doesn't touch anything. They are both serious and focused, fully in FBI mode despite civilian clothes they are wearing. They don't talk to anyone except themselves, watching the others from a corner by the kitchen dais with a view of the whole room, analyzing the situation. Zed, who knew about Mick's occupation, stares at them with wide eyes, astonished with the change in Mick's stance and behaviour. The pleasant and funny friend is gone, replaced by an undeniably dangerous soldier.

The presence of Oliver Queen, John Diggle and Laurel Lance is a surprise to all of them. Standing or sitting on the opposite to the agents' side of the room, they are all dressed casually, any weird weapons hidden in bags, but it's obvious that Mick and Sam know who they are judging by the tense look on their faces. Out of the three vigilantes, Diggle seems to be the one taking the presence of FBI agents the worst, Oliver ignoring it for the moment and Laurel not really caring, busy with her phone, perched on an armchair.

“I promised I'd be there,” Oliver says when John approaches him to shake his hand. The shake is strong. John smiles gratefully.

Introductions are made. FBI agents drop their professional stances. Vigilantes don't fight them. The hate between John and his old crew is buried for now, because John is losing a war and it's about saving the world. They all can unite for now.

They gather around the table by the fireplace, sitting where they can, nursing their beer bottles and pieces of food Chas, Mick and Sam managed to procure when John was still recovering.

John stands in front of them, hands in his pockets, red tie loose, having the fireplace warming his back.

“Thank you all for coming,” John starts, looking at them. He seems overwhelmed by the number of people ready to help him, but soon he covers it with a professional mask. He clears his throat and starts: “It's going to be a long story, so make sure you're comfortable.”

They nod and listen closely.

He tells them the story about the Rising Darkness, La Brujeria, Manny the angel who dragged John into this fight and now may be working with the hellish forces. John isn't sure, because Manny is most likely not a fallen angel. Not yet anyway. He suspects that Manny plays a double game, pretending to work with La Brujeria and in fact working against them.

The Apocalypse is coming. The crypt in New Orleans was the first gateway for the hellish forces, ready to take over the Earth – it's kind of ironic, considering that Jim Corrigan, who was killed on duty a few weeks earlier, was their close ally. John managed to seal the passage, but in the process some demons escaped and attacked him, hence the state he was found in.

“The second gateway is in the woods surrounding this house,” he says. “It's protected for now, but it's going to open in a few days and by that time it will be too late to do anything.”

He tells them that they can't touch La Brujeria. They don't know how. And with La Brujeria on the loose, there is no chance of stopping the hellspawn, so they will be in the crossfire. They can only hope that Manny is on their side and will deal with them on his own.

What they can do, is seal the gateway and make sure hellish forces won't try to open another one.

“That's the job for me. You're all here to help,” John tells them, making a circle with the beer bottle Chas brought him sometime during his story.

The front door upstairs opens and they see Liv Aberdeen slowly descend the stairs. She's surprised by the crowd she sees, but after a second of hesitation she goes straight to John, who meets her by the stairs after putting his bottle on the table.

“My father visited me and told me to come here to help,” she explains. John can see she's afraid, so he delicately leads her to the side of the room, away from the rest. Chas, Zed and Anne Marie follow them.

“Jasper left me a message,” Liv says in a hushed whisper. “He knows about the Rising Darkness, he wants you to use me as an amplifier. Says you're the Laughing Magician and you can use it to bargain.”

John tenses, his mouth forms a thin line. He's not happy with the idea, but he knows what Liv is talking about. He glances at the people around. Chas and Zed, standing there with blank expressions on their faces, have no idea what Liv means; Liv also doesn't really understand it, but Anne Marie seems to grasp the concept.

Anne Marie snorts in disbelief, earning a glare from Chas, but on the inside she's intrigued. The Laughing Magician is legendary. If what Liv's saying is true, John might be one of the most powerful sorcerers in the world. Adding an amplifier to his core power – having a psychic transfer her power to him – would make him a serious threat: maybe not to La Brujeria, because other than angels and God himself nobody can touch them, but certainly to the Devil.

She notices that John doesn't seem surprised at this, just reluctant – and not because he doubts he's the Magician, but because using his power comes with consequences and risks.

It makes sense, anyway, given how John's eyes gain a yellow tint at the mention of the title. It's like the power stirred inside of him and wants to be released now that it's recognised.

She braces herself. She's always suspected John is more powerful than he lets on, but she would make him prove it soon.

John glances at Zed. He knows what Jasper might have suggested. He thought of it, too, even before Liv showed up, just wasn't willing to go this way.

“I've never thought Jasper would want anyone to use your abilities like this, darling,” he says to Liv, keeping his hand on her shoulder, steadying her. “If something goes wrong, I can absorb your power and... your living energy.”

“Since when do you care?” Anne Marie asks suddenly.

She's been hostile to John before and he tried to ignore it; also, the world is ending, John's closest friend suggested risking his daughter's life, so he finally snaps:

“Oh, bloody hell!” John barks and turns towards her, takes a menacing step in her direction.

Liv backs away from him, surprised. People in the room jump.

“Could you please stop hating me until it's over! Do you really think I don't care!” he yells.

Anne Marie remains in her spot, but she pales a little. It's the first time any of them see John this angry at someone other than himself. He must have been bottling his feelings for quite some time and now he has enough.

“Do you really think it was easy for me to watch a little girl be torn to pieces and her soul taken to Hell! Do you really think it's easy for me to risk any of you! If I can't trust you to support me, then go hide in that bloody convent of yours and stop bothering me!”

He's fuming, he's pissed, his eyes glow bright yellow and the lights around are cracking.

The house is silent, only John's panting can be heard.

“You can do it,” Liv states quietly after a while, looking at him with wide eyes. “And I can help.”

John takes a deep breath, closes his eyes and sighs. The lights return to normal.

“You wanted me to let it go,” he realises, opens his (brown again) eyes and looks at Anne Marie. “I don't appreciate it,” he adds through clenched teeth. “There's a bloody reason I've never mentioned the Laughing Magician.”

“It worked,” Anne Marie confirms, her face a calm mask. She's still a little pale, but she manages to hide the satisfaction she feels.

“Can someone tell me what the hell just happened?” Oliver demands. They look at him. Queen and Diggle are standing by the chairs they've previously occupied, stiff and ready to bolt. Laurel is still sitting, but she hugs her phone to her chest and watches them with her mouth open in shock.

“Magic, brother,” John replies like it was obvious, sighs, turns towards the rest of the crowd and joins them. “The plan is: I need five people for the séance. If Liv here wants to follow her father's advice, she needs to be one of them. The rest of you, specially those who can shoot, need to cover us. When we breach the gateway, something may attack us and the circle can't be broken.”

Liv nods, determined. Her eyes are haunted: her father surely showed her what would happen if she doesn't help.

The Newcastle crew members look at each other.

“I guess you have four people for the séance,” Ritchie declares, pointing at Judith and Anne Marie, who nod solemnly.

“Five,” Zed cuts in. “If Liv can help because she's a psychic, so can I.”

“Remember what I told you about trusting me, darling,” John tells her, absolutely serious. 'Everyone who puts their trust in me, dies.' He'd prefer to not use his closest friends for this, but he doesn't have a choice and he has to trust them now, too.

“I know,” Zed replies and smiles reassuringly. She remembers. John returns the smile. A second psychic can make him even more powerful, so their chances increase.

“I'm going to sound brutal,” John says, addressing the people gathered around him, “but during the séance we – I – can't afford any doubt. I have to trust you to pass your magic to me or that we will be protected from the outside. We can't be distracted by wondering if you will do your part. I know you all as very brave people, but when we get started, there will be plenty of distractions. You may have visions of your biggest fears or see your loved ones in the approaching demon. Until the very end, I need everyone focused. We are all risking our lives here. If someone decides they're not ready for that, no hard feelings in leaving now.”

He gets nothing in return. John glances at Mick, who is standing by the wall across the room with his arms crossed. His brother is watching the other people, fully in sniper mode, calm, cautious and calculating. John Diggle, still standing by his chair, shuffles from one foot to another, suddenly uncomfortable. Oliver Queen looks uneasy, too; he glances at Laurel, who is sitting by the table. Sam Cooper sits to the side, head bowed, lost in thought. The Newcastle crew, again standing together, meet his gaze and it looks like a challenge. Chas sits on the arm-rest of the couch and watches him calmly.

John takes a deep breath, satisfied.

“Get some rest, folks. Sleep. Go for a walk. Try not to touch anything you don't recognise. We have time until tomorrow.”

People scatter around the house. Newcastle crew introduces themselves to Liv, Zed stays close to the other psychic as well, as Jasper's daughter is only the second psychic – after Judith – she met since joining John in his fight. Chas stands up, takes out a bag from a closet and starts looking through the contents. He puts out an ammo case and checks the number of bullets inside.

John notices that Mick approaches Oliver and Laurel with a determined look on his face. Good, so he can deal with Cooper.

When John walks towards the agent, Cooper starts before Constantine can say anything:

“So your plan is to literally go to Hell and bargain with the Devil.”

The agent doesn't look impressed, but he's generally good at hiding his real emotions among the people he doesn't know.

“Yep,” John agrees lightly, popping the 'p'. “And I have a request for you, mate.”

Sam looks at him calmly, his face absolutely neutral. Only a slight twitch of his fingers suggests that something is going on inside his head. He keeps glancing towards Mick, but John isn't sure whether he tries to protect his teammate or just looks out for what the younger man might decide.

“I want you to take Miss Lance to Atlanta and stay there until it's all over,” John says. Sam focuses on him. John holds Sam's gaze.

“Why?” Cooper asks, looking into his eyes.

“I've got lives on my conscience, you know?” John reveals, lowering his voice. “I didn't murder anyone, just... I've lost some people. What you will see here may cost you your faith and it's about as bad as watching someone die. I don't want to be the reason of it.”

It's one of the reasons. The other is to get rid of a potential distraction for Mick who is known for showing great loyalty towards his boss, to a point of risking his life.

“What about you?” Sam asks and his voice is even. John has to admit, he's really hard to read. “God, angels and demons are an important part of your life. You don't have faith?” he inquires and John is reminded of their first meeting in an interrogation room in San Francisco. Sam's talking with the same, psychologist-like tone, friendly and curious.

“It's hard to believe when you know,” John admits, smiling with one corner of his mouth. He pats Sam on the chest. “But you, mate, you keep your faith. We could use some divine help by the way, so if you don't mind asking on our behalf, I'd appreciate it.”

Sam nods and glances towards Mick and the vigilantes he's talking to. Mr Queen remains in the back, careful to stay silent. Mr Diggle is shooting metaphorical daggers at the Welshman, but despite being smaller and younger than Queen's friend, he can hold his ground. Ms Lance tries to protest, pale and visibly angry, but slowly relenting under the weight of Mick's arguments. The Welshman finally says something to convince her; she sighs, puts a calming hand on Diggle's shoulder and says something. By the change on Queen's face, which is now full of relief, Cooper can tell that she agrees to leave.

Mick meets his boss' gaze. Sam nods. Mick says something to Ms Lance and points at his boss. Oliver says something, nodding towards Cooper as well.

Everything is settled.

John watches the exchange and smiles lightly.

“Thank you for letting me meet my brother,” John whispers, not looking at Sam. The agent gazes at the Englishman, he notices the warmth in his eyes as he's looking at his twin.

“It was never my decision, but even if it was, I wouldn't regret it,” Cooper replies with a smile.

John glances at him and nods in thanks. Laurel approaches them.

“Are we leaving right now or do we wait 'till tomorrow?” she asks. Cooper looks at John, who shrugs.

“That's up to you.”

Mick joins them, his stride relaxed, hands in his pockets.

“Can we go and see the scene so I can choose my perch? I'm pretty sure Diggle is trying to kill me with a look,” he says with a smug smile, not concerned at all. Laurel glances at him and frowns with disapproval.

“I think we will leave now, so they can focus and we can rest,” Cooper decides suddenly. The smile falls from Mick's face. “See you when it's over,” Sam addresses him. Mick nods tightly; when he's pulled into a short hug, he returns it. “I'll be waiting in Atlanta.”

“Come on, take this,” Zed suddenly appears behind Mick, gives Sam a set of keys and a scrap of paper. “To my apartment, it's the address. Make yourself at home.”

John glances at her, surprised. For a person who tries to avoid law enforcement officers, inviting them to her flat is a weird move. Maybe she trusts Mick and Cooper enough or she just has nothing to hide there anymore.

“Thank you,” Cooper replies, covering her small hands with his own. “Take care. I will pray for you.”

“We'll call you when it's done,” Mick assures him.

“I'm sure they all will know when we're done, mate,” John mumbles, looking down, standing with hands in his pockets.

Laurel goes to say goodbye to her friends. Oliver hugs her tightly, whispering something into her ear. She pats his back and offers him a smile when they separate.

John, Mick and Oliver see Sam and Laurel out as they drive away in Sam's car, then come back downstairs to gather things they need during their little scouting trip.

Mick goes to his sniper rifle case lying under the stairs and retrieves the scope.

“I thought you're an investigator,” Diggle calls to him when he sees it.

“I am,” Mick confirms, straightens and looks at Diggle calmly. The Newcastle crew and Oliver turn to them. Chas keeps busy checking and cleaning the guns, pretending he's not interested, the psychics remain to the side of the room, curious, but not engaging.

“Is that standard issue?” Diggle asks and there's some hesitation in his voice.

“Not for investigators, no,” Mick denies, playing with the scope. He's smiling and the smile is slightly predatory; his eyes are sharp. He standing straight but relaxed, in 'at ease' pose. He has an upper hand in this game. A chain, typically used for dog tags, is visible over the rim of his dark grey shirt.

“You're a sniper,” Diggle realises. Mick bares his teeth in a wolfish grin. He tucks the hem of his shirt up and shows his Special Forces tattoo.

Diggle startles, wide-eyed.

“It's not a fight for territory, mate,” Mick says sharply, his smile suddenly gone. “You obviously have some military experience, so we'd all appreciate it if you put it into good use instead of sniffing around for competition.”

The sniper comes closer to the still frozen vigilante.

“And at this moment I don't give a fuck about what you and your friends are doing in Star City,” Mick continues in low voice. His face is a mask, his eyes are steel and Diggle has no doubts that the man can be deadly when confronted. “Just get your act together so I can trust you out there, eh?”

Diggle nods stiffly. Mick backs away and goes upstairs, where John, Oliver and Anne Marie are already waiting.

The four of them go outside, John leads them into the woods. They walk in silence, Constantine at the front, Mick and Anne Marie behind him and Oliver in the back, watching them, silent, lost in thought.

The Welshman especially occupies Queen's mind. Mick wasn't introduced as John's brother, it's obvious anyway. Not by the physical similarity, but the way they behave around each other. There's deep trust, they complement each other, they understand each other without a word. John is as unpredictable as a magician – a true magician, not someone doing card tricks – would be; Mick is a force of nature, dangerous in so many other ways. Normally they seem harmless, but there's lethal force inside both of their slim bodies. It all changes with a look on their faces, the way they watch other people, the tone of voice, one time calm and mellow, the other sharp and commanding. Oliver can bet that in a fight they are invincible.

Mick's voice shakes him out of his musings.

“So, why exactly did you take your little bird with you, mate?” the Welshman asks him.

“She's not my little bird and she would kick your ass for calling her that,” Oliver replies by reflex. “John didn't specify what kind of help he needs and she's very capable fighter in close combat.”

“Close combat is what we will try to avoid at all costs,” Mick smirks.

“I know,” Oliver snaps. “Still, you're lucky she agreed to leave.”

Mick smirks again.

“You're the one who's lucky,” he quips and turns away from him.

“So, John, how do you become a magician anyway?” Oliver calls to the front of their little procession. “This title you have, the Laughing Magician, sounds significant.”

John glances over his shoulder and shrugs, keeps walking and watches the ground. He obviously doesn't intend to answer the question. Anne Marie gazes at him and falls back a little to join Oliver.

“We don't know exactly how one gains magical abilities,” she replies. “In some cases it's hereditary, in others spontaneous; sometimes we call it a spark. No-one is going to make a serious research on it. For all we know, John inherited it. There have been people of magic among his ancestors, powerful people. Although, I have to admit, I've learned that he holds the title just today.”

“Really?” Oliver and Mick ask simultaneously: Queen curiously, Rawson suspiciously.

John glances at Anne Marie with a scowl but remains silent, just keeps walking with hands in his pockets.

“Actually, you two may be identical twins,” Anne Marie adds, pointing at John and Mick. “If John took the whole spark of your bloodline instead of sharing it with you, it may have manifested in different hair colour.”

Ahead of them, John groans. From the way he moves his head they are sure he rolls his eyes.

“Are you serious?” Mick exclaims, incredulous. “He's blond because he has magic?”

“As I said, no research,” Anne Marie replies with a shrug and smiles at his reaction.

“Is there any way to check it?” Mick asks, wide-eyed. He sounds excited and genuinely curious. “If I have this spark? Maybe I could be of use in other ways than my shooting skills?”

“I wouldn't use you anyway, bruv, you're absolutely untrained,” John protests, still turned away from them.

Mick catches up with him and stops him with a hand on his arm. John sighs, exasperated.

“But what if...” Mick starts.

“Fuck, no,” John barks and there is so much anger and authority in his voice and on his face that even his bad-ass sniper brother backs away.

Mick knows John wants to protect him. Shooting is Mick's familiar territory, he's new to magic: John barely let him touch the subject. Mick is willing to try something else if he would be more useful; he's a soldier, he's been in trouble before. He's seen death, almost died himself quite a few times. He's SAS and FBI, and he can handle whatever trouble John throws his way. John keeps forgetting that, he sees him mostly as his miraculously found twin brother.

The look of rage on the blond's face makes Mick hesitate, though. They both have strong personalities, it's rare for anyone to out-stubborn them; John also holds a position of authority. Mick is sure he can't win this one, no matter what he says.

“I just want to know,” he mumbles hesitantly, looking down, feeling like their age difference is much bigger than five minutes.

Anne Marie sighs, takes Mick's hand and puts a small, round object into it.

“Do you feel anything?” she asks. “Does it get warm?”

Mick weights the orb in his hand, looking at the intricate decorations with interest. John frowns, wondering where the thing came from, but he doesn't say anything.

“Not really,” Mick replies. “There's a tingle, maybe.”

“Which means John indeed took the most of the spark of your bloodline,” Anne Marie explains and takes the orb from Mick's hand; she throws it to John, who catches it by reflex, hisses and drops it on the ground like he was burned. “That means John inherited the spark and it's strong within him,” she says, pointing at John, who scowls at her while flicking his hand, but remains silent. “Your tingle means you only have some blood connection to the spark.”

“So you have to shoot on this one, mate,” John sums up sharply, clearly annoyed. “Shall we go on?”

Anne Marie smiles at him sweetly, picks up the orb and hides her in a pocket of her habit.

They walk through the forest in silence for nearly a mile when they reach a small clearing. The ground is moist; in the middle of the clearing they see ruins of a crypt. The stone has fallen and is covered in moss. Just in front of the former entrance they find a small patch of dry ground.

“The circle will be here,” John says, pointing at it. “We can expect the swarm coming from the ruins. So, my dear shooters, please go look for your perches,” he adds with a wide gesture and a smug smile.

“So, how is it going to look?” Oliver asks, looking around. He notices that Mick focuses on trees and shrubs around the clearing, places easy to hide but also with a good view on the circle. Queen knows a thing or two about vantage points and he has to appreciate Mick's professionalism on this.

“For you, mate?” John clarifies with an arched brow, searching his pockets for a pack of cigarettes. “It's going to be monsters and demons jumping from the ground and your job is to keep them from killing us or yourself.”

He finds the pack, he searches for his lighter and groans when he doesn't find it.

“And for you? I haven't seen you doing anything spectacularly magical,” Oliver challenges him.

“No, I only took you to a different realm a few months ago, so you could save your friend's soul from whoever was holding her, nothing magical,” John replies with sarcasm, looking at him sharply. “But yeah, that's not the magic I plan to use there.”

He puts the tip of his right forefinger close to the cigarette in his mouth. Suddenly a flame like a candle appears above his fingernail. He lights the cigarette and extinguishes the fire, flicking the hand. He takes a deep drag and blows the smoke out through his nose. Oliver gapes at him with open mouth, Mick and Anne Marie are a little less surprised, but still stare at him with wide eyes.

“The thing with this kind of magic is: it's exhausting,” John explains calmly, clearly proud of the stunning effect his little show has on the people around him. “And addictive. So I do it as rarely as I can. Down there I am going to use every trick in my repertoire and it's almost sad you won't see it.”

Anne Marie frowns at this show of his ego. He's changed, but clearly old habits die hard.

Mick shakes his head and goes towards a small elevation at the edge of the clearing. Oliver looks at the opposite side of it and sees a good vantage point as well.

Their and the circle's positions form a triangle. They all see each other well and the risk of friendly fire is low. Both shooters and John look satisfied.

They get back to the house shortly after. John announces that their séance will take place tomorrow at noon. They scatter around the house for the rest of the day. Oliver goes outside, when he returns two hours later, he's panting and sweaty. Diggle and Mick, carefully avoiding each other, also do some workout outside, then spend some time talking on their phones, most likely updating the interested parties – Oliver's girlfriend, Cooper and Jenna.

John spends the time reading some old books in his bedroom and tinkering by the gear rack downstairs.

Chas shows their guests into some empty rooms. After dinner the house quiets for the night, only John stays up. Sitting by the great rack, he enchants four steel rings he prepared earlier, big enough to be put on a finger. Then he relocates to the couch with a book.

Mick finds him still sitting there near 2 AM. The Welshman flops down beside his brother without a word. John shoots him a look, but doesn't say anything, his face grim, a frown on his forehead and mouth forming a thin, tense line.

Calloused hand of his sniper brother lands delicately on his back, moving up and down in a soothing motion. That small, familiar hand with short, thin fingers starts to massage some tension out from John's shoulders. Constantine leans into the touch with a sigh, he closes his eyes and bows his head, trying not to break under the weight of responsibility.

He doesn't hear Zed's soft steps down the stairs. He doesn't hear Chas joining them. Suddenly there's four of them on and around the couch, his friends leaning in, offering a touch of comfort or just staying close.

John can feel the presence of Oliver Queen, the dark green dressed vigilante, hiding in the kitchen, watching them.

Maybe he's not imagining Anne Marie praying softly upstairs.

John lays his head on Mick's shoulder and closes his eyes; he feels his brother's hand in his hair. There's a weight of the whole world on his shoulders and his friends can see it. He wants to cry under the weight, but the feeling of close allies around him gives him hope. Maybe with them, he can do it.

Maybe he can go to Hell, stop the Apocalypse and then come back alive.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those who read the previous version of this chapter and may be confused right now: yes there WAS a different character from “Arrow”.


	15. Epilogue part two – The Rising Darkness

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really really wanted to read some source material, but in the end I'm coming up with my own stuff. Those familiar with Hellblazer comics: I am so sorry. I am also sorry to “Arrow” fans, as the events in this fic will be somewhat in conflict with the show, or rather what was said about Constantine after his guest appearance.  
> Some characters will be unfairly underused, there will be some action, a lot of swearwords (some of them in Welsh), a minor character death (by being eaten. Offscreen! It's heard only and I don't elaborate) and visions of monsters and Hell. You are warned. (More spoilery warnings in end notes.)

Cooper wakes up at sunrise on the couch. Laurel is up half an hour later in Zed's bedroom. They eat some of Zed's food and clean after themselves. They don't talk too much, the vigilante a little wary around the FBI agent and Sam far too considerate to do anything about it. Laurel is obviously bored; she sits at the table in the open kitchen and uses her phone for Google search anything she can think about at the moment, avoiding topics of demons and Hell. She tries not to worry.

Cooper kills time by reading Zed's books on her couch.

Around 10 AM, Sam looks up.

“Are you religious, Miss Lance?” he asks.

Laurel startles a little, looking up from her phone.“Not really,” she admits politely. “I celebrate Christmas, but I'm not a regular participant in religious events.”

She knows the agent is a devout Christian and she wonders if he's offended by someone not sharing his faith. She knows he shouldn't be.

“I'm only asking because I was hoping you would accompany me to a church,” Sam admits.

“I can join you,” Laurel agrees with a smile, relieved with the neutral response from the man. “I would feel better with a company while our friends, you know, save the world.”

“Maybe you could pray, too,” Sam suggests while he carefully puts down the book. “I think they would use any help they can get.”

“Then why are we here and they are there?” Laurel asks with a sudden venom in her voice.

“Because we would distract them. We can help in other ways,” he explains calmly and it only makes Laurel angrier.

“Praying,” she spits with a frown. She puts her phone on the table with more force than intended.

“John believes it can help,” Sam replies, still calm. He stands up and puts on his jacket. “I believe it can help. You don't have to; you can just sit there with me and hope for the best,” he suggests and stands before her. “So, coming?” he asks with a hand extended towards her.

Laurel looks up at the serious face of the agent. It's a face of a man who has seen Hell on Earth and still kept his faith. In his deep, calm eyes she can see knowledge of the world and trust in God. It's a face of a man who can convince you everything will be alright. You look into his dark eyes and believe every word he says.

“Coming,” she replies and takes his hand.

 

* * *

 

In the millhouse, nobody feels like eating breakfast. Also, nobody really slept through the night, so most of them have very picturesque bags under their eyes.

Mick, Oliver and Diggle force themselves to do their daily workout outside. John spends every moment reading Jasper's books. Zed and Liv bond a little over tea. Chas fidgets, radiating worry and hiding it under attempts of cleaning up. Anne Marie prays in her room. Ritchie and Judith catch up. The atmosphere is so thick it can be sliced with a knife.

John's signal to leave is almost a relief. Before they go out, John gives the four shooters – Mick, Oliver, Diggle and Chas – the rings he enchanted yesterday.

“It will produce ammo and protect you. Keep it close and don't you dare lose it,” he says.

Of the people for the séance, Newcastle crew is calm, accepting what is to come; Zed is keeping up a brave face, but Liv is nearly panicked, pale, sweaty and her hands are shaking.

“You will be protected, you just need to trust me, luv,” John promises her before they go out.

Liv takes a deep breath and slowly lets out the air, blowing her tension with it. It works to a point.

“You focus on stopping the Apocalypse. I will focus on helping you,” she replies resolutely. She has her brave mask on too, now – Zed smiles at the sight and rubs Liv's back.

John gives her a small smile and delicate squeeze on the shoulder.

It's nearly noon. They go outside, John at the front, Chas behind him, then Newcastle crew and the psychics; the three shooters remain at the back.

Mick is dressed in black: military boots, bulletproof vest and fingerless gloves included; his sniper rifle assembled and hanging on a sling over his shoulder, two handguns sit in holsters on his belt. He's in full military mode and it's a scary sight for some of the girls. Judith looks at him appreciatively, though, but Rawson resolutely ignores her.

Oliver and Diggle wear their usual vigilante gear sans the masks, as they don't need them. They, too, scan their surroundings on the way to the clearing and start to feel the weight of the situation.

The rest of them wear their usual day clothes: Ritchie in a little too big jacket and jeans, Anne Marie in a habit, Judith, unarmed, in her leather regalia; only John left his tie at home.

They reach the clearing. The shooters take their positions. The circle sits down by the crypt.

John sits cross-legged in the middle. Right behind him is Anne Marie, Ritchie and Judith sit on his sides, Zed and Liv in front of him, forming five corners of a pentagram, with John at the centre.

“Are we ready?” John asks after taking a calming breath.

“No,” Liv states immediately, “and never will be. Just go on with it.”

John smiles, nods at her encouragingly. She smiles back.

The people of the circle take each other's hands. John's hands lay on his knees, turned upward and pointing towards Zed and Liv.

John closes his eyes, breathes deeply, lets himself think about good things in his life. There aren't many, most of them are either right beside him, or perched in the woods. Chas, his closest friend. Mick, his beloved brother. Zed, who never hesitated, never left despite the pain he'd caused her.

He then banishes every thought out of his mind. He shakes the tension out of him, takes a deep breath, opens his eyes, looks ahead, his eyes hard, his resolve steel.

“Yviss m'evelienn vente cdelm en tell,” he starts. The circle recites after him. They practised this last night, separately and quietly, so difficult incantation is not a problem. “Yn blath que me darienn,” he adds, the circle repeats. “Aen minne vain tegen a me.”

It's noon, but suddenly it becomes dark as night around them. Thick black clouds gather above them, cutting out the sunlight.

“Yviss m'evelienn vente cdelm en tell,” John repeats. They hear a thunder. “Yn blath que me darienn.” A wind picks up. “Aen minne vain tegen a me.” It starts to rain. They don't really feel it, focused on the chant.

On the third chant, the rain intensifies. They hear a rumble like during an earthquake. When they say the last words for the third time, they hear growling.

“Oh, shit,” Mick mutters, wide-eyed, lying on the ground, hidden in the woods, and watches a crack open in the ground by the crypt and the first dark figure dig itself up.

John raises his hands, spreads his fingers like claws and points the palms towards Zed and Liv. Both girls look at him, mouths tightly set, eyes determined.

“Aep cor me lode deith ess'viell,” he says and feels a rush of air coming from the girls to him. “N'te mire daetre, sh'aente vort!” he then shouts and the circle is surrounded by a dome of blinding light, obscuring the view of the six people under it from the outside.

“Holy fucking shit,” Mick spits, aims and starts shooting.

 

* * *

 

When John opens his eyes, he finds himself sitting cross-legged in the middle of a black void. He stands up and looks around. Nothing can be seen or heard around him. Temperature is mild, he doesn't feel any rain or wind.

“John,” he hears Anne Marie's voice, “I know you care. I don't hate you.”

Suddenly, he sees Judith and Ritchie standing before him, moving to the side like they were on a carousel and he was standing, unmoving, in the middle of it.

“We forgive you,” they say in unison. “We hope one day you will forgive yourself.”

They disappear. John smiles, warmth filling him. He knows what's happening. They're leaving him a map. If he's assured he has something to get back to, it will be easier to find his way home. All he has to do is follow the memory of their kind words. They will be waiting for him.

Liv appears before him.

“You can do it,” she says, just like after he revealed his power in anger. “And I can help,” she finishes and disappears.

Zed takes her place.

“I'm here because I want to,” she assures him, just like when she came back home after he was exorcised.

He smiles to them, too. Suddenly he feels a warm rush of air. It hits him, but doesn't knock him off his feet. When he's steady again, he feels stronger and energized; he's sure his eyes glow yellow. He'd seen it before, when he and Jasper tried this amplifier thing, a long time ago. The sight was more concerning than the demon version of him.

He knows he's ready. He extends his hand and with a thought he lights a ball of fire out of it.

Suddenly, the blackness of the void falls like a curtain and is replaced by red. It becomes hot and windy. He sees a landscape full of ruins around him, degrading, destroyed. It's like a city was hit with an atomic bomb just a second ago and the shock wave is constant. The world is falling apart before his eyes, dark, menacing, fragile and dangerous.

Some shadows move in the background. He hears growling. He feels someone's presence around him.

Just like he imagined it. What a lovely place to spend eternity in.

“John Constantine,” he hears a booming voice, coming from all around him. “It's nice of you to bring your own fire, but we have plenty of that.”

John extinguishes the ball by closing his fist and lowers his hand. His eyes return to their usual, brown colour.

“Nergal,” he calls, “I'd love to chat, but I have business for the big one.”

“And who are you to make demands?” asks a different, lower voice. Voice of authority. The Devil.

Suddenly there's a ball of fire coming John's way.

 

* * *

 

The darkness from the woods reaches Atlanta. Laurel notices it through the stained-glass windows of the Cathedral of Christ the King, where she and Sam kneel in a pew in the middle of the nave. Cooper is praying softly. She doesn't recognise the words, but she soon realises he prays in Latin. She just sits there with her head bowed. She can't remember the words of any prayer, so she just spends time thinking about the ten brave people in the woods, trying to stop the Apocalypse.

She gasps and grabs Sam's arm when she sees the darkness seeping through the windows of the church. It looks like a black fog or thick smoke; it stays close to the roof, not descending on them, but makes the interior look dark and ominous. Sam raises his head. His face is expressionless.

“Our Father who art in heaven, hallowed be thy name,” he starts and suddenly something clicks in her head. She remembers the words now. She joins him in prayer, trying to keep her voice steady, but her eyes are big and scared.

“Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven...”

They hear a thunder. Sirens start to wail in the city. They pray. People rush in to hide from a freak storm that started outside. Suddenly it's cold.

“Please, dear God, help them,” Laurel whispers when they finish Lord's Prayer. She regrets she agreed to leave the millhouse, she may have been able to help them; on the other hand, Rawson was right. Oliver worrying about her on the battlefield is the last thing they need.

Bells start to ring in the church. A priest comes out of sacristy, kneels before the altar and intones:

“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee...”

The smoke seems to descend on them.

The people in the church join the priest in prayer, Sam and Laurel included. The lawyer forgets she's not religious; if she tries hard enough, if she puts enough faith into the words, she may help. She may not feel so helpless.

“They say it comes from the woods,” someone whispers behind them.

“They say a man went to Hell to stop it,” someone else adds. Sam and Laurel are too focused on the prayer to ask how does he know it.

“Who?”

 

* * *

 

“Hellblazer,” the Devil spits aggressively when John deflects the ball of fire with a quick shield spell.

John isn't even fazed. He lowers his hand and walks a few steps towards the source of the voice.

“I've come to ask you why are you in such a hurry to take over the Earth if it's promised to you after the Day of Judgment?” he asks calmly.

“The veil broke,” the Devil replies. “We are invited.”

“By whom?”

“You.”

John doesn't reply for a second or two, thinking it over, a frown on his face. His eyes light up with realisation.

“La Brujeria,” he says.

Suddenly the temperature drops slightly. John smiles with satisfaction. He knows he looks normal, but he feels the power stirring deep in his core, ready to be used.

“You had no idea,” he brags. “It's La Brujeria who invited you up sooner - not as a ruler but their little minion.”

He knows the Devil is aware that if La Brujeria is the one behind the broken veil between the worlds, he will not be ruling the Earth. It was one of the reasons Hell didn't accept them when they were defeated the first time.

“And what would you know, you damned mortal?” the voice asks, audibly irritated.

“I have sent enough of your petty helpers back down here to know,” John barks. “Is it really what you want? Take over the Earth now, but have no power at all?”

“You are lying,” he hears and sees another ball of fire. He manages to deflect it again, but he's hit from behind with another and lands on his hands and knees with a hiss, thrown some steps ahead. He feels the heat increase again. He hits the ground with a closed fist and a shout:

“Ueassan lamm!”

A dome of blue, cold light appears around him, deflecting everything thrown at him. After a minute the attack ceases. John stands up, the dome still active. He's standing straight under it, assured now that his powers work as they should be.

“I have no reason to lie, I'm actually protecting your dominion,” he says, his face forming a calm mask.

“And why is that?” the Devil asks coldly.

“Because with you it's punishment for those who deserve it,” John admits honestly, looking around for more danger. “With them it's a nightmare worse than imagination, no hope and no place to hide, even Heaven is not safe.”

“So you prefer Hell over the rule of La Brujeria?” the Devil asks, laughing.

“Yeah, well, I'd prefer a third option, but of the two evils...” John replies and shrugs, still walking slowly towards the source of the voice, with the dome of light still around him.

“I can grant you Hell right now,” the voice promises.

“Oh, I wouldn't do that, mate, not now,” John says, smiling again. He focuses on the power in his core. He feels his eyes gain their yellow glow again. “Not when I'm in my prime.”

He sees a shadow ahead of him, a black, enormous, terrifying creature made of fire, smoke and misery.

“I could keep you,” the creature says, spewing fire like spit. “I can stop you from returning to your world. You belong to me anyway, John Constantine.”

John stops, raises both his hands and whispers a chant:

“Yn toin av muirednn que dis eveigh e aep llea...”

The ground around him turns from black to white and cracked. The vapor of sublimation starts to rise from it, but the ring of white keeps extending; soon it crosses the protective dome John still has around him.

“Do you really want me to freeze Hell?” John asks and his voice is booming and multiplied. The creature before him takes a step back, visibly surprised.

“What do you want?” it asks.

 

* * *

 

Gunshots ring through the forest, arrows fly, always hitting target. There's no break in it, they don't have to reload, they only shoot shoot shoot and demons fall and disappear.

They are paired: Diggle stays close to Oliver, and Mick cooperates with Chas. Out the four of them, Chas is the worst shooter, so at one point he starts to serve as a spotter for Mick. The sniper appreciates it more than he has time to admit. He's seriously considering dropping his sniper rifle in favour of a handgun, but he trusts his main weapon more: it's slower, but the range is wider and his shots are more precise. Queen and Diggle are there for speed; Mick concentrates solely on the circle by the old crypt, keeping the demons away from the dome of light still covering the six people inside.

At one point they have to cover each other, as the demons notice them and divide into two groups: one attacking the circle and the other focusing on the shooters. Chas has to get back to shooting, protecting himself and Mick, but he's comfortable at close range and doesn't waste bullets.

Oliver's and Diggle's attention is on the circle, so Chas' sudden exclaim to Mick startles them all. Diggle turns to see Rawson aim his rifle at him and pull the trigger.

For the vigilante it's like time slowing down. He almost sees the big calibre bullet rush towards them and wants to close his eyes, waiting for the pain, convinced that the sniper sees something evil in them. But he only feels a rush of hot air by his ear and hears a shrill scream behind him. He turns to see a demon fall to the ground and disappear.

“Fucking focus!” he hears Mick's sharp voice carry over the howling on the clearing. He watches the sniper turn back to the circle and continue shooting.

Diggle decides to think it through later, when they are not attacked by hellspawn. Oliver doesn't say anything, just keeps releasing arrows from his bow, his face grim and covered in sweat.

 

* * *

 

“I want to seal the passage to our world,” John says, his voice still multiplied, strong as steel. “And I want you to wait your turn for the rule of Earth.”

“There are a few things you need before I allow you to do that,” Nergal cuts in, stomping behind John. John looks down at his still extended hands, he moves them to create an open ball. The ring of ice keeps extending.

“Feainne renn!” John shouts; a ball of cold light forms between his hands, he throws it at Nergal after a sharp turn towards him. The demon is thrown back, surprised.

“You've got something that doesn't belong to you,” John spits, walking towards the downed demon, leaving a trail of ice behind him, his protective dome still around him.

The Devil is laughing.

“Impressive, Hellblazer,” he says, “but it's not enough to seal the passage and get what you want. You need help from down here. Who is going to help you?”

John doesn't pay attention to him, he just approaches Nergal with another ball of cold light ready in his hands; a cold fury shines on his face, only adding to his power. The demon backs away from him, trying to stand up.

“That exorcism was a mistake I paid for dearly, mate. Time to release her,” John orders.

“She's mine,” Nergal spits and stands up, throws a ball of fire towards John, but the exorcist has never been more powerful than he is right now. He deflects the fire with a simple gesture.

“No, she is fucking not,” he growls through clenched teeth. He feels his core become hotter. He's so powerful it should be scary, but he drinks in the feeling of being invincible, of being a proper adversary even to the King of Hell.

“He's right,” the Devil admits.

Then something happens. The wind quiets, the red around them dims.

 

* * *

 

On the clearing, the dome of light around the circle disappears. So do the demons. The forest is silent.

The people in the circle seem oblivious, sitting cross-legged with their eyes closed, except for John, who is nowhere to be seen.

The shooters look around warily, their weapons ready. It's still dark despite daytime. The air becomes even colder.

Suddenly they hear a gut-wrenching howl. It's a laughter, but more demonic than anything they can imagine. They stare, wide eyes filled with terror, into the forest behind the crypt.

Tall, thin creatures start to emerge from between the trees. They are dark and looking like thin, tall, walking trees; their features are gnarled, but they seem to hold much more power than such deformed bodies should.

“Why are you in such a hurry for the Apocalypse?” multiple voices ask at once. “We wanted to wait a few more days.”

Mick fires at the creature the closest to the circle, but it doesn't even seem to notice.

“You want to die some time ahead? Be our guests,” the voices add, closing in on them.

“Is that...” Mick starts, feeling Chas' steady presence behind him.

“Yeah,” the man says with a sigh.

La Brujeria showed up themselves.

 

* * *

 

John feels growing dread inside. He knows he doesn't have much time, but he has no way of speeding things up. He should have all the time in the world: it's been said that time stops in Hell. He remembers the people on the surface though. It's a good moment to speed up and finish things before it's too late.

He sees a familiar, male figure somewhere behind the Devil. He allows himself to be distracted from Nergal, he recognises the man.

“Dad?” he chokes out. He lowers his hand; the ring of ice stops extending, but remains in place.

“I hear you need help,” the man admits. He looks much older than John remembers; he's dressed in rags barely covering his thin body. “Should I give it to you?”

John wants to be angry, but at this moment he can't. His father is keeping one of his arms behind his back, John can see a small figure hiding there; it's not important at the moment. He looks back into his father's eyes, dark like his own.

“I cried at your funeral, dad. And it's not my fault you're here,” he says, but his voice contains much less venom than it should. “Did you know my twin brother is alive? You've given him up and never told me.”

He looks at his father and remembers Mick. The proud soldier with a wide smile, witty comebacks, incredible mental strength and good memories of his adoptive family. He smiles.

“I have forgiven you for making my life a living hell,” he declares. “I forgive you for giving up my brother, because his life was better than mine because of it.”

Thomas Constantine falls to his knees like his strings were cut and reveals the figure behind him.

“Astra,” John says with a sigh and falls to his knees himself. Now that he doesn't focus on his power, he feels weaker and weaker with every passing minute, like he was bleeding out.

 

* * *

 

The shooters keep doing their job despite the almost absolute lack of result. Even Mick and Oliver switch to handguns, firing desperately, trying to draw La Brujeria's attention away from the circle. It works, to a point: there is some confusion among the monsters, as the shooters are hidden between the trees, their bullets like stinging bees. Chas and Mick, still keeping close to each other, relocate between hiding points a few times, trying to stay out of sight. The sniper hopes that Oliver and Diggle are doing the same.

The tactic is not entirely successful. They miss one of the monsters turning back to the circle. They don't see who is dragged away, but they realise what is happening when they hear a sickening crunch and a short, very human howl. It sounds feminine.

“Holy fuck,” Mick mutters. He knows John is safe from this kind of danger, but yesterday it was explained how important Zed and Liv are in the whole plan. He really hopes the victim isn't one of them. He can grieve later for whoever it was.

He sees another monster walk slowly towards the circle.

“John is going to kill me for this,” Mick mutters and to Chas' astonishment, he runs out of his current perch, shouting “Hey! Here!”

The monster turns to him and starts walking towards him. Mick changes position to lower the risk of friendly fire, running along the trees in a crouch; he starts to shoot at the monster. It doesn't stop the creature who barely notices the sting of bullets, but at least it's not focused on the circle anymore.

Mick keeps shooting, the magic ring from John, hanging on a chain around his neck still working, so he doesn't have to reload.

“Why is this my life,” he mutters while still squeezing the trigger, calm, collected, focused and well aware they all are going to die soon. He watches the monster as it approaches him.

The monster is about five meters from him when it raises its hand and Mick flies backwards, landing on the ground with a thud.

 

* * *

 

“You let me die,” the demonic version of Astra says as it approaches John, her eyes black, her mouth bleeding.

“I am so sorry,” John sobs. “I didn't try hard enough, please forgive me.”

“Why should I?” Astra asks, tilting her head to the side.

“This is not your place, you don't deserve to be here, I do,” John declares.

“Then you should stay here,” she spits and suddenly she's much bigger than usual, almost as big as Nergal.

“I will, when my time comes,” John replies and finds the strength to stand up and gather his power again. Astra is back to her normal size, she looks up at him. “Right now I need your help, darling. I promise you, if you help me, you won't have to stay here. And this time I will keep my promise,” he says and summons his power into his hands. It's still there, they still have time.

He forms two balls of cold light in his hands. Astra's eyes turn to their usual, dark colour. She smiles, raises her hands too, stands by John and turns toward the Devil. The King of Hell watches them without a word.

Thomas Constantine stands up, too. They form a triangle. John's power pours over them.

“Aep cor aen tedd, teviel e gwen...” they chant together and the world around turns from red to the black nothingness again.

 

* * *

 

Mick pulls himself back together in no time. He manages to stand up and starts circling around the monster; he keeps shooting. He doesn't have time to keep an eye on the others, he focuses on the task before him. He sees his attacker raise its hand again.

“Cachu bant ti cachu mes,” he mutters through clenched teeth while still squeezing the trigger and the words seem to draw attention from the monster before him; it hesitates.

“Poetic,” it admits.

“I am fucking desperate, wyneb cach,” Mick spits. He remembers what John told him when he tried to irritate his brother with talking Welsh, how the language was popular among occultists, how some of the most powerful spells were in Welsh, so Mick should be careful what he says around demons. Mick doesn't know any spells, but if the curses can slow the monsters down, he's going to try.

He sets off into a run along the trees, away from the circle. He feels that Chas is following him, shooting but keeping close. 'If John ordered him to protect me, I'll kill them both when it's over,' Mick decides while still drawing the monsters' attention to himself.

He feels another hit of hot air and he's thrown backwards. He hits a tree with his back and suddenly he can't breathe. His vision is black and he feels himself falling to the ground. He notices the vibrations of the ground as the monster stomps closer. With his recovering sight he sees a gnarled hand reaching towards him. For the first time in his life, he's frozen in place.

_Not the first time. It happened before. In San Francisco, a few years back, when Beth had showed him the driver's licence of a blond Englishman with his face, born the same day as Mick. The man was currently sitting in an interrogation room. Mick stared at him through the one-way mirror and felt like some missing parts of him clicked into place. Other than that, his mind was totally blank. No 'it's impossible'. No 'maybe it's just a doppelganger'._

_And then the man started talking to Sam. The accent was obviously different than his, but Mick knew he had sounded the same when he had played with accents and had tried Liverpool._

“MICK!!!” he hears Chas' bellow and suddenly there is no monster before him. The creature – pushed out of the way – lets out a furious grunt and smashes its arm wide to the side: right across Chas' face, who is thrown to the ground and doesn't move again, his face and throat terribly slashed.

“Cach,” Mick mutters and manages to stand up and run away again.

He glances towards the place he's last seen Oliver and Diggle – they are not there. He doesn't have time to look for them. He feels the monster's presence behind his back.

“Hurry the fuck up, brother,” he mutters.

He notices Oliver among the trees, Diggle close behind, covering him. Apparently the vigilantes decided to play bait as well and there are doing about the same as Mick – mostly running and shooting when they have time.

Mick knows they will probably die. Hopefully the whole catch game with La Brujeria will slow down the demise of the people in the circle enough for John to be able to seal the passage. Admittedly, the monsters are not interested in it, but there is only so much four – or three now – fast running, well trained, but very human people can do against six or seven supernatural, immortal, devilish creatures.

He hears the heavy steps right behind him.

He feels a deep slash opening down his back, tearing through his vest like a knife through butter.

He doesn't have time to scream in pain.

The clearing is filled with bright light, expanding like a dome starting from the circle. It looks like an explosion, taking over all of them, evaporating trees, grass and monsters with them. And then time stops. A humanoid figure with wings appears in the middle of the circle.

 

* * *

 

John doesn't know when he lost consciousness, but he comes back to it in that black void his chant with the circle at the beginning sent him to. The temperature is mild again so he doesn't even feel it.

He sits up and looks around. There's nothing to be seen except for a small cloud of light a few paces before him. It looks like a translucent child, sleeping curled into a ball.

He recognises its features immediately. From the curly hair and frilly dress he knows he's looking at Astra's soul.

He looks around again. He almost expects his father waiting there, somewhere, but they are alone. Alone and stuck.

His mind is blank. He has no idea how to reach the surface. He's sure he can't do it with Astra, but he doesn't want them to be stuck here.

“Thank you, John”, he hears Manny's familiar voice. The angel appears suddenly before him in a ball of bright light; John has to cover his eyes to not be blinded.

“We couldn't have done it without you,” Manny continues and his features clarify before John's eyes. “We couldn't have stopped La Brujeria if the passage to Hell wasn't closed. We succeeded. You succeeded.”

John doesn't reply, just crawls on his hands and knees towards Astra, who seems to be unconscious.

“At what cost?” he asks finally. He's afraid to touch the girl, her figure so innocent, childish and bright.

“You still have something to return to,” Manny assures him and crouches on the other side of Astra, in front of John. His wings are visible behind his back, their colour grey, as usual.

“So, you're not fallen?” John decides to ask.

The angel looks at him with his golden eyes, his face unreadable. John watches him, cautious.

Grey wings turn white.

“No,” Manny replies and John feels like he can't keep himself upright even kneeling.

“Time to go home, John,” the angel says after a few seconds.

John chokes, the memory of what has just happened overcoming him. He feels like crying. He knows he will remember everything when he comes back to the surface. It took him years to free Astra, so he doesn't have to blame himself over her damnation anymore, but now he has a new layer of nightmares to be prepared for and he has no idea if he's ready.

He manages to take a deep breath.

“Take Astra with you, please? Take her where she belongs,” he asks, panting; he's swaying, so he sits down on the black, hard, absolutely neutral ground.

“What about you?” Manny asks and there's a hint of concern in his voice.

John smiles, closes his eyes. There's a small trickle of blood coming out his nose.

“I will wallow in self-pity for a few minutes and catch up with you,” he replies.

“Hurry up. Your friends will be worried,” Manny replies, takes Astra's soul into his arms and stands up.

John waits for him to disappear before he says:

“Thanks a lot, old boy.”

He falls on his back and sighs.

 

* * *

 

By some miracle, they are not hurt by the explosion.

The forest is still dark.

Mick wakes up among the trees, sprawled facedown on the ground. He drags himself upright on his hands and sees Queen and Diggle stir on the other side of the clearing. He notices Chas' long body lying where he's last seen it, after the idiot decided to tackle a monster. His face looks less bloody, though. In fact, he looks like he's actively healing.

“'Survival skills'. Right,” he remembers what John's once told him about Chas' unique ability. He stopped being surprised by anything remotely normal a long time ago. He can count multiple lives as relatively normal. Especially when it's about a person close to John Fucking Constantine.

He stands up, enters the clearing and stays at the edge of it, surveying the situation.

Where the circle has been, there's a big hole in the ground, like a bomb-site. The people of the circle are thrown away from it, but they're not burned, just knocked out. Mick counts four bodies. Zed and Liv are already waking up from their daze, Anne Marie and Ritchie start to move around, too. Only Judith is nowhere to be seen. Mick suspects that she was the victim of the direct La Brujeria attack. His throat clenches at the memory of her scream.

He watches as Anne Marie wakes up with a gasp. She bolts upright, scrambles to her feet and practically falls into the hole with a distressed shout.

Mick is rooted in place. He can't force himself to move forward.

Oliver, already conscious, is the first to reach Anne Marie and join her at the bottom of the hole. Together – later with Diggle's help, they drag John's unmoving body out of the hole onto the grass.

Zed crawls to the place they lay him on, cradles his dirty and sweaty face in her hands. Mick sees her calling to John, but there is no reaction from the blond magician. All he knows is that John's eyes are open, but they don't blink.

“John...” he mutters and feels himself take a step forward.

“John, please, breathe,” Zed begs, crying.

That stirs Mick into a more decisive motion.

“JOHN!!!” he bellows as he runs towards them. He feels agonizing pain in his slashed back, but that doesn't stop him. As he's close to them, he trips suddenly and rolls; he stops by them. Diggle and Anne Marie, startled, reach him and help him stand up, but they let go of him once they see his eyes. They are unfocused. They are, indeed, black – along with the usually visible whites.

They pause, looking at him warily. The sudden silence draws Zed's attention from still unmoving John to his apparently possessed brother.

Liv joins them by John's body. They see now healed Chas coming from behind Mick. Oliver and Diggle gape at him, as they have seen him die defending Mick, but they file their surprise for later.

Mick sways a little, then looks around them.

“I think...” he starts and they tense, “... that you need to exorcise me,” he finishes with a sigh.

He speaks with John's accent. He sounds exactly like John.

“As possessions go, this is one of the calmest,” Chas says, deadpan. Mick rolls his eyes in so typically John manner. He backs away from them, then locks his eyes on John's body.

“What will happen when we bind your soul to its rightful place?” Anne Marie asks, approaching him cautiously, like he's a feral animal easily spooked, and they know the reason for her concern. John's soul might have been on its way to the other side: to Hell or Heaven. He probably got lost. If they remove him from Mick's body, they may lose him forever instead of bringing him back into his own flesh, which isn't mortally damaged. It's like his soul got knocked out and just happened to catch Mick.

“I don't know,” John admits. “But my brother has his own soul and I don't intend to occupy his body.”

“We could...” Chas starts reluctantly. He tries not to think too much about the fact that John technically died. Sure, he remembers cases when a body was alive without the soul, but his friend apparently doesn't breathe. He doesn't want to lose him.

“Get my bloody soul out my brother's body, will ya?” John snaps harshly, his hands curled into fists; his blank eyes turn yellow for a split second.

“John, this is your body, right here,” Ritchie cuts in, joining them. He's limping, but other than that he seems intact. “Come on,” he adds and takes one of Mick's hands and guides it towards John; he places it on Constantine's chest. He crouches by the brothers, Anne Marie on the other side, guiding Mick's other hand to John's chest.

“John Constantine, return to your body,” they say in unison, keeping Mick in place even though they don't feel any resistance from him. “Return to the body that belongs to you, free the one you unlawfully took over. Release him,” they order and Mick suddenly slumps over John's body with a gasp.

The gasp is returned by John, who blinks furiously, flails a little, taking in the people hovering over him. It takes him a while to actually notice his brother laying on his chest, breathing heavily.

“Oh, bollocks, Mick, I'm sorry,” he starts and Mick raises his head and looks at him sternly, his eyes back to their normal brown colour, whites now slightly bloodshot.

“Shut the fuck up, John, I'd rather have your soul in my body that wandering God knows where,” he snaps and drags himself off John with a hiss of pain.

The others bow their heads in relief. Chas crouches by John and squeezes his shoulder, Zed sobs openly.

John sits up and notices the look of pain on Mick's face. Mick turns slightly, so the still bleeding gash on his back is visible. Constantine surges to his feet and puts his hand on Mick's back. John closes his eyes and concentrates; Mick stills.

They watch as the long gash is healed within seconds, only the tear in Mick's shirt reminding them of his injury.

John staggers, but manages to stay on his feet. Chas and Mick keep close, watching him. John looks around, counting the people standing close by, all tired, dirty and worn out, but alive and in one piece. Except one.

“Judith,” he says with a sigh; his eyes water a little.

“Yeah,” Chas confirms, watching his friend break a little with every bad news.

John slumps, he looks like he's barely able to drag his feet forward. Mick's hand hovers over his back, ready to support him.

“Come on, let's get home,” John says.

“We will look for her and bury her by Gary, if you want,” Chas declares and Oliver and Anne Marie nod somberly. John looks like a funeral of another friend is the last thing he can handle right now.

John, his face twisted with pain, both physical and mental, looks at them for a few seconds, reading them, looking for something. They don't know if he finds it, but then he just nods and turns towards the path to the house.

Zed, Liv, Diggle and Mick follow him, the rest of them spread between the trees, looking for their fallen friend.

 

* * *

 

The people start to leave the church. The thick clouds covering the sky dissipate slowly, revealing late afternoon sun. The air is getting warm again; the feeling of dread is leaving the people.

Sam Cooper and Laurel Lance are among the people going outside. They don't talk about the freak cloud that seemed to fill the church with cold. All they know is that they have spent at least four hours reciting the Rosary, Sam at one moment taking over the lead, as the priest's teeth were chattering to a point of making him unable to utter a word. The agent remained steady and calm through all this and now they can see the look of gratitude in the eyes of others who prayed with them.

“Mister Cooper?” they hear and turn towards the voice. They see Anne Marie standing to the side. They approach her.

“Sister,” Sam greets her respectfully.

“You can return to the millhouse, it's over,” she says quietly, careful of not being heard by the passers-by. She doesn't look around, she focuses only on Sam. “We've lost one of ours and from what I heard, you can help me with the proper service. Don't worry, it's not one of yours or Miss Lance's friends,” she adds before Laurel can start to worry. “John Constantine is fine as well. We're waiting for you there,” she finishes and suddenly she's gone.

Sam and Laurel look at each other.

“The day of wonders wasn't over yet,” she says and starts walking towards the car.

“Hopefully, it is now,” Sam replies and returns the soft smile of comfort she offers him over her shoulder.

 

* * *

 

The first thing John does when he enters the house is sever his magical connection to Zed and Liv. The three of them fall to the floor like their strings were cut and it's up to slightly exasperate Mick and Diggle to settle them in their bedrooms, where they sleep for the next two hours.

In the meantime, Sam and Laurel return from Atlanta. Laurel apparently made Sam stop on the way and bought three boxes of beer. Sam doesn't look happy with this idea, but he helps bring the alcohol to the house and then goes straight into the forest.

Mick and Diggle are left on their own with a quiet guidance from Laurel, and they spend the time eating the leftovers from yesterday's dinner and carefully avoiding each other.

They all gather at the millhouse three hours later. The darkness outside is natural this time. The forest is quiet. John, Zed and Liv are awake again. John doesn't allow the psychics to touch him, so they find out their powers are still intact by testing Diggle (who volunteered under the condition they won't tell him what they see). The tension between Mick and Diggle is palpable, but it seems that it's Dig who radiates it and Rawson tries to just ignore it and stay away, because apparently it's what the vigilante needs. Laurel loses her patience first and, to everyone's surprise, she snaps at Diggle:

“Oh, cut the crap.”

It helps for some reason. Diggle loosens up. Mick smiles while taking a swig from his beer bottle. Oliver gapes at them, trying to understand the situation, Chas just shakes his head with a smile and John gives Laurel a bottle from the fridge.

“Very thoughtful of you, darling,” he admits with a playful smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

He walks slowly to Oliver, who sits cross-legged on the chair to the side of the room and watches everyone, lost in thought.

“What's the deal with Diggle?” John asks, gives him a beer bottle and flops down on the chair beside the vigilante. He hooks the heels of his boots over the edge of the seat and puts his free arm over his knees.

Oliver sighs.

“I think it's a mix of respect for a member of one of the best special forces in the world and uneasiness over the fact that said member is also an FBI agent,” he explains and opens the bottle. “He'll get over it.”

“Mick and Sam won't touch you,” John assures him, taking a swig of his beer.

“And why is that?” Diggle asks as he joins them; he stands before the two of them with hands in his pockets.

“Because my job is to profile serial killers, kidnappers and potential domestic terrorists,” Mick cuts in, approaching them as well. “Vigilantes are people who care too much and have a certain skillset,” he adds with a shrug. Then he raises his bottle as in a toast. “And you just helped us save the world. You're definitely not my problem, mate.”

“By the way, I don't think I will ever repay you for that favour,” John says to Oliver as he turns to him with a serious look on his face.

“I won't count it as a favour,” Oliver protests, just as serious. “Plus, if so, your brother started repaying it by saving Dig's life. So don't mention it.”

They spend the night in the house, drinking, grieving, telling stories and jokes, even singing, all of them brought together by the experience, relieved to be still alive. It's almost like a sleepover in the middle of the living room; they sit in a circle on the floor, having spread some blankets and pillows over it, with snacks and drinks within reach in front of them. Next to John sits Chas, supporting him slightly, then Liv and Mick with Sam behind him. Oliver planted himself next to the sniper, then Laurel and Diggle beside her, Anne Marie and Ritchie. Zed sits on the other side of John and can't keep her hands off him, massaging his back or playing with his hair absently. Constantine doesn't seem to notice.

John refuses to tell them anything about his actions in Hell, he only mentions he managed to free Astra, so Mick starts to share some stories from his military days to divert the attention from him, gaining a smile from Chas in thanks. Diggle joins him, finally relaxed around the agents. To John's dismay, Anne Marie and Ritchie reveal some funny details from his punk days; they remember Judith too, and drink a round in her name. Mick is questioned about the insults he started to throw at La Brujeria, Chas has to explain how did he survive the slash from the monster and both of them stick to a minimum amount of details.

“There's this flowery scent in the air,” Zed whispers to John, who knows what it means for her. John gives her a long look and a nod, but he doesn't try to find his orderly angel lurking around.

Chas and Mick notice that from that moment John withdraws slowly. He barely talks anymore, dismisses their worry, just hangs around and drinks beer. He goes to bed early, shortly after Zed and Liv, about three hours into their 'party'.

Slowly, the whole house goes to sleep.

 

* * *

 

In the morning they discover that Jasper's old truck, John's basic possessions and John himself are gone.

They find his phone on Judith's grave.

Mick, with Sam's permission, uses Penelope to track John to the Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta International Airport, boarding a flight to London.

They lose track of him at Heathrow.

 

THE END

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Further warnings: two very temporary major character deaths and one very calm possession. And that's it, I think. You can go back to read the chapter ;).  
> I know where John went. Do you?  
> The chant used to get John to Hell and his spells were shamelessly stolen from Andrzej Sapkowski's “Time of contempt” (the Witcher saga, second part). In the book, it's a song and bits of conversation in so-called Elder Speech.  
> Mick's insults in Welsh were taken from insults.net :). I have no idea if Matt Ryan actually speaks Welsh - there's no evidence of it and it's very much possible he doesn't.  
> And that's it, folks! Thank you all for reading, Kudos-ing, Bookmarking and commenting. Special thanks to Lucy for tackling my writing and providing valuable suggestions. It's all greatly appreciated :).


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